


The Ones We Win

by etherrealoblivion



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherrealoblivion/pseuds/etherrealoblivion
Summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 74
Kudos: 435





	1. Prologue

It was a cold winter evening and the grandfather clock in the corner of the bookstore had just struck eleven.

The book you were reading was getting repetitive and you could barely keep your eyes open from the strain. It was a brand new one, hot off the presses, hadn’t even been released to the public yet. That was one of the upsides of owning a bookstore: getting to read books that no one else had yet.

_ Doesn’t do much good if the book is shit _ , you thought as you stretched and put the book back on the shelf — a little haphazardly — for the grand release tomorrow.

Grand releases always took a lot out of you, but thankfully, you weren’t working tomorrow, confident in your employees ability to handle the Saturday morning crowd.

The bookstore was shrouded in darkness, the only light emanating from the dim street lamps just outside. It didn’t hurt your eyes to read in the dark anymore. Too many late nights with your nose in a book did that to a person. 

But your mind was still now yearning for a palate cleanser to get that dreadful writing out of your mind. After a moment of browsing the shelves, you decided on your trusty old copy of  _ Meditations _ . Settling back into the overstuffed recliner, you cracked open the book and absentmindedly played with your locket.

It was easy to get sucked into a book whilst alone in the dark. Darkness was underrated. It was the only time that a person could be alone but still feel surrounded. You thought of that Emerson quote, how did it go. . .

_ I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me _ .

You felt this everyday, the moment you set foot in the bookstore. It was cheesy, but the books on the shelves seemed to whisper and breathe, exuding life. With a touch of your fingers to the spine and a deep breath of the pages, you could feel the story behind any book.

The buzzing of the neon  _ Open _ sign started to hurt your ears so you closed your book, flipped the switch off, and started to lock up.

No one came in after 10 p. m. anyway but you stayed until closing time — eleven o’clock — every night. It was nice to feel like if someone did want to buy a book so late at night, they’d be grateful you were still here. It was a small hope but it helped you get through that extra hour that you needed on your paycheck.

Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. practically cost more to keep up than you made in profit. But, on the bright side, anyone with a love for books knew that your place was the best in the city. And the people who loved books were your kind of people. 

You pulled on the door once you were outside, making sure it was locked up tight.

Living only a block away, it just made more sense to walk to work. Sure, there was some danger walking alone late at night, but you’d taken too many self-defense classes to be scared. Plus, holding your keys as a weapon between your knuckles gave plenty of comfort.

Owning a car was for suckers. You were home within ten minutes.

The stairs in your apartment were being repaired. It was a wonder that of all the things to break in an old apartment building, the stairs would be the first to go. Other tenants surely didn’t mind, probably preferring the elevator, but to you, the walk up to your apartment on the fifth floor was the highlight of your night.

Tonight, however, you had to take the elevator.

It was easy to get lost in thought in the harsh silence of the lift.  _ Whatever happened to elevator music _ ? you thought, rubbing your temples. Aurelius’  _ Meditations  _ was much more thought-provoking in the original latin. You made a mental note to not read that book again on a late night. It only caused headaches and existential thoughts that you couldn’t deal with right now.

Quietly, you kicked the door closed, locked it, and slipped off your shoes. Easy, though it would be, to fall into bed without changing and brushing your teeth, you needed the routine tonight of all nights. 

Toothpaste never tasted good. Maybe it was the minty flavor? It was supposed to be appealing but it just tasted like a bitter candy cane.

The calendar on the wall caught your eye. There were only two weeks until Christmas. Two weeks until you could take an extra day off work to do nothing at all. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the holiday, there just wasn’t anyone to spend it with.

Oh, well. It wasn’t like Christmas meant anything anyway. Jesus was born in April. Stupid pagans. 

If you weren’t so tired, you’d google the origins of Christmas. If an idea worm was planted in your head, you couldn’t sleep until you figured it out. But tonight, after a long week of studying and working, sleep was too enticing.

Your bed was particularly comfortable after such a long day. Normally it would take a few hours to fall asleep, but the moment your head hit the pillow, you were out cold. The soft sound of your breath was the only sound in your room now.

By midnight, you were in such a deep sleep that you didn’t hear the front door creaking open.


	2. Crude Awakening

When you woke the next morning, you knew immediately that something was wrong. The air didn’t smell like a Saturday morning. There was a distinct aroma that you could only classify as . . . _ man _ .

_ Fuck, _ you thought, getting out of bed as quietly as you could. You’d only had someone break in once before, but that was enough to scare you now.

Heart pounding softly, you tiptoed to your bedroom closet, withdrawing the bat kept just inside. Feeling a bit ridiculous, but scared, all the same, you crept into the living room, holding your phone with 911 pre-dialed, ready to press at the slightest threat.

“AH!” you shouted as you jumped forward ready to swing at—

—your empty living room.

You sighed, dropping the bat and making your way to the bathroom. It was probably just the landlord smoking again, blowing in through the vent.

Nearly out of bitter toothpaste and barely any money left from last week's paycheck. Great. It’s not like you could give yourself a raise, that’s not the kind of business owner you were. If you gave yourself a raise, you’d have to give one to your employees. And you certainly couldn’t afford to give Claire and Caleb a fatter check. 

Stale coffee and a migraine was a horrible way to start a weekend. Not to mention you actually thought someone had broken into your apartment. Thinking back on it, it was rather far-fetched. You had nothing of value here. Your TV was years old and your computer probably held the world record for the slowest system ever. The only thing of value you had was cash and your Grandmother’s locket.

You reached up to your neck to hold the locket for comfort but all you felt was your clavicle.

Rushing to the bathroom mirror, you pulled off your pajama top and scoured your neck and chest for the pendant.

Instead, you were met with your shirtless self staring back at you, no necklace in sight.

You ran to the bed, stripping it of all covers and scrambling to find it. You had surely had it on last night, you remembered!

But the locket was nowhere to be found. Anywhere in your apartment. 

Thinking you might have left it at the bookstore, you slipped on some shoes and made to unlock the front door . . . only to find that it wasn’t locked.

You froze. There was no way you hadn’t locked the door last night. It had become such a part of your habit you didn’t even notice doing it anymore. Fear settled in the pit of your stomach like a stone. 

Within 10 minutes you were on the phone with the police, trying to explain your situation.

“No, it’s more than a  _ feeling _ ,” you said, annoyed, “I locked my door last night and when I woke up this morning, it was unlocked and my necklace is gone and I can’t find my hairbrush, just. . . . Send someone over here . . . please.”

The voice on the other end of the line was patronizing and bored, spiking anger in your gut.

“Are you positive that you locked your door last night?”

“As positive as I am that you’re an  _ asshole _ !” 

Before the man could retort, you slammed the phone down on the receiver and dropped your head into your hands. The bourbon in your kitchen cabinet was calling your name, but you weren’t ready to let your guard down yet. The situation was too unnerving.

Deciding that an in-person confrontation would have a stronger impact on the police, you grabbed your purse and took the elevator down to the lobby. You only lived ten minutes walking distance from the police station. A brisk pace would get you there in five. And after that exchange with the idiot on the phone, you didn’t feel like wasting any time.

~

“And when did you first notice something was off?”

The cop taking care of you was a woman, thank god. All the men you’d spoken to were so dismissive. This lady was a nice change of pace. You could do without the interrogation room, though.

“I guess the moment I woke up? I just sorta knew something was . . . off,” you said, shivering at the thought of someone being in your apartment while you slept.

“Don’t worry, Miss. I’ve taken your report and sent a unit to your apartment. In the meantime, is there someone you can stay with? A friend? A family member?”

Maybe Steve would let you crash on his couch. Claire was out of the question. Other than those two, you didn’t have any friends in the city.

“No,” you responded sadly, “There’s no one.”

The door to the interrogation room slammed open and five people wearing thick vests that said FBI barged in, quickly moving the officer with you away.

“Officer Lombardo, if you’d come with me,” a tall skinny man said, escorting her from the room.

You slid your chair back, alarmed, and stood against the wall, hands up in a defensive position.

“What’s going on? I don’t—“

A neat woman with black, pinned-back hair came up to you and put a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hello, hi, I’m Emily. Everything’s alright.”

She had soft eyes and her tone was gentle but you could tell this was a front she was putting on to comfort you. 

“What’s going on Emily?” you asked, voice wavering.

She spoke calmly, trying to keep you distracted from the men holding guns behind her.

“The report you just filed came up flagged on our database — in reference to an alleged new serial killer. The second it was in the system we were called over here to. . .”

But everything had gone silent. You watched her lips move but no sound came out.  _ Why is the room tilting _ ? was the last thought you had before you hit the ground.

~

Bright light hit your eyes. Squinting, you tried to take in your surroundings. There were tubes in your arm and you weren’t wearing clothes. Ok. Hospital.

To your left, the woman from earlier, Emily, was talking quietly with a muscular bald man.

“Emily?” you rasped, still foggy from sleep.

Both of them looked at you, Emily stepping closer and holding your hand.

“Hey, how are you?” she said, then, to the man behind her, “ _ get Hotch _ .”

“Who’s that?” you were confused and your head hurt.  _ I just want to go home _ , you thought.

“That’s my boss, he’s gonna help you. We all are.”

Head pounding, sick to your stomach, you managed to get up out of the hospital bed and yank out the IV.

“Hey, woah. Slow down,” Emily tried to block your path, and you would have given in but for some reason, you kept pushing past her.

“I need to know what’s going on!” you said, a little too loud. “Please, just let me go home.”

“We can’t.”

You turned to a tall man with sharp facial features and a set jaw. He wasn’t smiling. The lack of lines on his face hinted he’d never smiled.

“Why not?” you whispered, unsure if he’d be able to hear you.

“You’re a target for a serial killer.”


	3. The Cover

As soon as the hospital would allow you to leave, Emily and her team drove you to the FBI headquarters where they’d brief you on the plan, whatever that meant.

By the time you’d gotten there, you’d heard more about serial killers and their behavior than you’d ever like to. It took a while for you to calm down enough to properly listen, so when you were ready, everyone was as gentle as possible.

“This unsub has killed three other women at the least,” the bald man from the hospital, Morgan, his name was, said.

“Unsub?” you asked quietly.

“Unidentified subject,” a tall, wiry man said. He seemed a little young to be working for the FBI. “He’s been targeting women of your approximate appearance, same hair color, same height.”

The man flipped over a large whiteboard to reveal pictures of women that looked remarkably like you. It was unnerving in the first place, but downright terrifying when you considered the fact that those women were dead.

“But, I mean, there’s a ton of girls who look like me,” you stuttered. “Just because I look like that doesn’t make me a target, right?”

“All the victims have been discovered wearing elaborate costumes, clothes from many different eras. With each of them, a copy of a classic book accompanied the body.” Morgan looked over the police report the officer had been taking from you. “You said you own a bookstore?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean there’s a killer after me!”

There was an uncomfortable silence as the team looked at each other, clearly unsure of what to say.

“What?” you prompted.

The leader spoke, Hotch.

“We have evidence that this particular unsub has been displaying stalking behavior on an unknown woman in town. Based on your recent break-in and physical appearance, we believe you may be that woman.”

“That’s a pretty big leap,” you said, doubtful. Someone just broke into your house. It didn’t mean there was a crazy stalker killer after you.

“Actually, the theft of a personal item, something that has value to you and only you: the locket, your hairbrush, signifies that the perpetrator cares less about monetary value and more about what you value. This suggests obsession and stalking behavior.”

If a dictionary could talk that’s what it would sound like. 

“So, someone’s gonna kill me?”

The team hesitated.

“Unlikely,” Morgan said after a moment, “Most stalker-killers don’t intend to murder the subject of their obsession. Instead, this particular one seems to be taking it out on women who look like you.”

“So, someone is killing  _ because _ of me.”

The silence was answer enough.

You weren’t sure what you had planned on doing today, but it certainly wasn’t this. Sitting in the middle of an FBI conference room surrounded by agents telling you that there was a killer obsessed with you.

“What’s gonna happen?” 

A blonde woman who hadn’t spoken yet came and knelt by you.

“We’re going to place a protective detail on you. An agent will be with you at all times while the investigation continues. We’d like you to continue your routine as normal. Any change in your schedule will prompt a change in the unsub’s behavior. He’s comfortable right now and we want him to stay that way.”

Comfortable. They wanted to keep your stalker comfortable.

“Okay. What do I do first?” You just wanted them to catch this guy so you could move on with your life.

“What do you normally do on Saturdays?” Emily asked.

“It depends. It’s the only day I have off from work. Sometimes I hang out with my friend Steve, go to the park, or just stay home and chill.”

“Well, what does the rest of your week look like?”

“I’m at school from seven to three, then work immediately after. Usually, I close up at eleven so I’m home by midnight.”

A stunned silence followed this summary of your schedule.

“What?”

The skinny man spoke, “What you’ve described is roughly an eighty-eight hour work week not factoring in all the hours doing homework.”

“Fast math,” you muttered. “But, yeah, pretty much. I’m either in school, doing homework, or at work. I don’t even know why anyone would  _ want  _ to stalk me. I don’t  _ do _ anything.”

“Nevertheless, there is someone after you,” the blonde woman said. “We’re going to have to assign someone from the team to be your protector.”

“Meaning one of you is going to have to follow me everywhere?”

It was an uncomfortable situation already and every question you asked seemed to raise the tension in the room.

“Which of you is it gonna be?” Again, the team looked around at each other, seemingly not sure, themselves. 

“Why is this happening to me.”

It wasn’t a question. And they all knew it.

~

You waited patiently in the next room while the agents discussed what the cover would be. Finally, alone with your thoughts, you found you weren’t as scared as you probably should have been.

Sure, it was frightening to think there was someone obsessed with you, but you’d been in scary relationships before. And when your last ex decided to break in over a year ago, you certainly didn’t get an FBI detail. You wondered if this was at all related, making a mental note to bring it up later. 

In the office next door, their voices were muffled but loud. You considered each member of the team, thinking about which one would be the best protector.

Emily was the one you’d talked to the most, Morgan seemed strong, as did the leader, Hotch. You didn’t know who the older gentleman with the goatee was, but he was probably your last choice. The blonde woman had made a nice impression. The tall skinny guy was quick-witted and you would have laughed at his demeanor if not for the serious situation you were in.

Your train of thought was interrupted by the doors opening and the team coming back in, somber but determined looks on their faces.

Hotch spoke first, surprisingly gently.

“We’ve created a protection program. There will be a surveillance team parked outside your apartment and your workplace at all times. You’ll need to stop going to school during the investigation. In the meantime, you’ll need someone to move into your apartment with you to keep a closer eye.”

“How many bedrooms is your apartment?” The skinny man asked.

“One,” at your answer, the skinny man went pink. “Why?”

“The cover we’ve created places, Doctor Reid, here—“ Hotch gestured to the skinny man “—as your boyfriend who’s just moved in with you. That way he can keep you safe in your apartment.”

“Boyfriend?” You looked at him — Doctor Reid — and he met your eyes. Upon the contact, his eyes went wide and he dropped his gaze to the floor, cheeks reddening.

“It’s the best cover to place him in your apartment,” Emily assured you.

“Okay.”

It would be strange to live with a man. Sure, you’d had guys crash on your couch before and one very short relationship where you’d moved in together. But that was after a year together. Could you deal with a strange man living in your home so suddenly?

“You should probably get going,” Morgan said, making you and Doctor Reid jump slightly.

“Of course,” the doctor said, standing. “Um, I don’t have a car.”

You felt yourself smiling for the first time all day.  _ He’s actually rather handsome _ , you found yourself thinking. That thought was quickly shooed away and you responded.

“Neither do I. I like walking places. Anywhere I can’t walk, the bus is much cheaper.”

He gave you a soft, awkward smile and ran his hand through his scruffy hair. 

“Well, you’ll have to use a government-issued vehicle,” Hotch said, breaking the spell between you and the doctor. “It’s safer for you to drive. Now, I want you and Reid to head over to his place now so he can collect his things to move into yours. We have a limited time frame to work in so as not to arouse the suspicion of our unsub. Remember, a security detail will be following you at all times.

“When you get back to your apartment, Reid will send the team a text. We’ll continue the investigation from afar and keep you both updated frequently. Any questions?”

He had spoken so fast, it was a lot to take in. 

“Where’s he gonna sleep?” you said, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

Hotch looked at Reid, then back at you. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then thought better of it.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” he said briskly and left the meeting room.

You turned to Reid and forced a smile. This morning did  _ not _ go how you thought it was going to, but something about this man cheered you up whether you wanted it to or not.

“Shall we?” he said, motioning to the door and clearing his throat.

Nodding softly, you followed him out of the building and into the parking lot. He led you to a small green car that looked too . . .  _ normal _ to be in the FBI car park.

“Who’s car is this?”

“It's a government issue. They have a bunch of extra cars down here for undercover work. I grabbed the keys to this one on the way out.” Then, more to himself, “I’ve kinda always had my eye on it anyway.”

He was a strange man. Not the type you expect to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Even more startling was catching a glimpse of the gun on his hip as you both climbed into the car.

Reid must have noticed your sudden uncomfortability because he said, “I’m sorry about the gun, I know it can be unnerving, but it's a standard-issue. It’s to keep you safe.”

“I know,” you said shortly. You’d never liked guns. But Reid seemed to know what he was doing and, strangely enough, you found yourself trusting him.

Several minutes of total silence later, you were outside his apartment, helping him load a box of his things into the trunk.

“You really didn’t need to carry that,” he said, getting back in the driver's seat.

“I know, I don’t mind. I figure it’s the least I can do for you after all . . . this.”

He looked for a moment as though he were about to say something, then rethought it and started the car up, driving toward your apartment.

“We have to take the elevator,” you said, steering him towards the lift. He’d placed his bag on top of the box despite your protest you didn’t mind carrying something. Even though the pile was stacked so high he could barely see over the top.

“The elevator?” he groaned.

“I know, I hate it too, but the stairs are broken so we have to.”

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?” he grumbled as you rode the lift up to your floor. There was barely enough room for the two of you. It was less like an elevator and more like a small closet.

“This is mine,” you said, unlocking the door and stepping into your flat, regarding it very differently now that a stranger was with you.

“Sorry, let me just—“ quick as you could, you cleared some space on the coffee table for him to set down his things, took some dishes to the sink, and shoved a pile of dirty laundry into a basket.

He set the box down and took in his surroundings. You waited patiently for his judgment.

“Woah!” He pointed to your bedroom door where a huge Doctor Who poster was. You cringed. If you’d known you’d be having . . .  _ company _ , you’d have tidied up a bit, hid some nerdy memorabilia. At least you’d closed your bedroom door.

“Oh, yeah, just ignore that. Guilty pleasure.”

He looked at you, eyes wide and smiling.

“I love Doctor Who!”

Shocked, you let a smile slip, earning one from him in return.

“Cool! Well, there’s something to do with our time together.”

Reid looked away for a moment, then regained himself.

“So, about the sleeping situation. . ?”

“Right, of course,” you grabbed some blankets from the linen closet and walked over to the couch. “Um, it folds out. Is that okay?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah!” He perked up, slumping down on the couch and getting comfortable. “I can fall asleep pretty much anywhere, it’s no problem.”

“Okay! Well, I think I’m gonna take a nap. Feel free to help yourself to any food or whatever. The bathroom is just right there. If you need anything let me know. Just make yourself at home, really.”

“Thank you, oh, um . . .” he seemed more flustered than an FBI agent should. Actually, it was kind of comforting. “We haven’t really technically met.”

Oh yeah. You hadn’t introduced yourself to anyone back at Quantico.

“Right! Um, I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I guess I assumed you already knew that. You’re Doctor Reid?” 

You held out your hand for him to shake, but he just stared at it awkwardly.

“Spencer! Please, call me Spencer. Sorry for not shaking hands, but the number of germs passed through a single handshake is astronomical. It’s amazing it’s still in practice. It’s actually safer to kiss.”

He blanched, then backtracked.

“I mean, not that that’s what I’m suggesting. I just thought it was interest— Let me try again. Call me Spencer. Please.”

He flashed you a pitiful smile, seemingly desperate for a fresh start. It wasn’t necessary though, because you delighted in the way he babbled.

“Alright, Spencer,” you smiled warmly at him. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Once you’d gotten comfortable in bed, you realized there was no way you’d be able to sleep. Not with everything that happened today. 

Then you thought of the handsome, smart, strong man in the next room who was dedicated to protecting you from any possible threat. 

You were asleep within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fanfic Tumblr is etherrealoblivion. It's where I post my oneshots. <3


	4. Supper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw: for full emersion, use the Chrome extension 'InteractiveFics'. It replaces 'Y/N' with your actual name. enjoy! <3

A sudden loud beep had you shooting upright in bed. You leapt up and put your ear to the door. Rather than sinister noises, you heard the faint humming of a very familiar theme song.

You cracked open the bedroom door, peeking into the kitchen where Spencer was bustling around with a frying pan and a spatula with a focused expression on his face, humming the theme music to Doctor Who under his breath.

It was actually kind of adorable. You pushed open the bedroom door further to get a better look, but the door creaked and Spencer spun around, withdrawing his gun and pointing it square in your face.

“ _I’m sorry!_ ” you squealed, throwing your hands up in surrender.

He quickly holstered his gun and ran over to you. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” you tried to laugh. “A little shaken but I’m okay. Really!” you added after a doubtful look from him.

His eyes were a deep hazel that seemed to peer into your soul. His hands felt good on your shoulders, clutching you tightly in comfort. It had been a while since you’d had, well, _any_ physical contact. He was so tall he had to lean down to level his face with yours.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize how close the two of you were and stepped back, clearing his throat. 

“I was, uh, trying to make dinner.”

“I can see that,” you said playfully, with a glance at the kitchen in disarray.

“Yeah. I’m not the best cook. I can memorize thousands of recipes in minutes but I’ve never seemed to master the execution.”

You hesitated. 

“Thousands of recipes in minutes? What are you a genius?” you laughed.

“Scientifically, yes. An I.Q. score over 160 classifies someone as a genius.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head, slipping his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

“Nope.”

“Wait so you can read like, a thousand words per minute?”

“Twenty-thousand,” he corrected, stepping back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

“Twenty- _thousand_!? That’s impossible!”

“Actually, the unconscious brain can process up to eleven million bits of information per second. It’s just a matter of being able to—“

“—to access the information from your subconscious,” you said, cutting him off. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

He looked at you in shock.

“What’s even more impressive is that you finished a sentence for me.”

“Sorry,” you blushed.

“No! No, I mean, not a lot of people can, erm, keep up. When you start college at fourteen, not many people expect you to be smarter than them. Then when they find out how smart you really are, it can be intimidating.”

Your mouth twitched up into a smile. Spencer was impressive, for sure, but he was also entertaining. Not in a make-fun-of kind of way, but he made you laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Supper’s ready!”

You stifled a laugh.

“ _Supper?_ ”

“What?” he looked over at you, reaching up to get two plates.

“Who says _supper_? Are you eighty?” you teased. 

“I’m twenty-six!” he said indignantly.

You froze.

“Wait, really?” He nodded. “You’re only twenty-six and you’re a prominent FBI agent? How?”

“Genius I.Q, three Ph.D.’s, and my irresistible charm,” he said, giving a goofy smile.

“ _Three_ PhDs? How? I’m getting a PhD and I can barely keep up with the workload!”

“You‘re getting a Ph.D.? That wasn’t in your police report. What’s it in?” he asked as he filled your plates. 

“Actually, I’m working on two.”

“ _Two!_?”

You nodded, happy that you’d been able to shock him.

“Yep. Linguistics and Philosophy. I like Philosophy better but Linguistics is more challenging. The library won't let you into the section with the _really_ good language books without a certain clearance. But I've actually nearly finished my thesis for it. What?” you added, noticing him staring at you.

“You’re working on two doctorates _simultaneously_?”

“Surprised you’re not the only genius?” you joked, taking your plate from him, then, upon seeing what he’d made, bursting out into laughter. 

“What?” he looked genuinely confused, which only made you laugh harder.

“Bacon?” you said through gasps. “Bacon and pancakes? You are aware it’s—“ you glanced at the clock, “—nine forty at night?”

“Gimme a break!” he said defensively. “It’s the only thing I can cook. The word ‘cook‘ being a generous descriptor.” 

It was better than Doritos and bourbon for dinner, your go-to meal. You were just glad you’d had the stuff to make dinner. It would be very awkward trying to explain your unhealthy eating habits to Spencer.

You didn’t have a dining table. Anyway, you usually ate on the couch and watched something on TV. That was normal nowadays right? Whatever. Spencer didn’t seem to mind which was good enough for you.

“So, um,” he said nervously, pulling out a pad of paper and pencil. “There’s a few things I need to go over with you.”

You nodded, remembering the situation you were in.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have shown a sort of stalking behavior before? They’d be unreliable, constantly late, not being able to stick to a schedule?”

“The only person I know like that is Claire, one of my co-workers, but she’s not a stalker, she's just always late to work. Honestly, the only people I really know are my co-workers, some people from school, and Steve, my friend.”

“The FBI is going to need a list of people you see frequently. If you could put that together as soon as you’re ready. Also, all your credit card information will have to be analyzed, everywhere it’s been used. Whoever accesses your card, even for something as small as a stick of gum, has the opportunity to use that information to find your name, your address, your workplace—”

“Ok. I get it. People I see frequently and my credit card info. Gotta warn you, there’s not much I buy with it other than books and coffee. Then again, there’s the occasional splurge at the mall.”

“Well, the FBI needs all of it.”

You nodded softly, staring at the bacon on your plate. He hadn’t said _I need_ he’d said _The FBI needs_. You weren’t sure what that meant exactly.

“Do you want to watch something?” he said, gesturing toward the TV. “It might be a good distraction?”

“Yeah,” you put your plate on the coffee table, noticing that you’d barely eaten. “Yeah, that sounds good. Could you just put something on? I don’t wanna choose.”

He nodded and picked up the remote.

The only thing he really knew you liked was Doctor Who so he put on a random episode. You let the TV become background noise to your thoughts as you stared off into space.

Spencer was comforting to be around. He helped take your mind off the situation you were in. You looked over at him on the couch, long legs crossed under him. He had taken off his tie and shoes and changed into more casual clothes: a jumper and some jeans. He was absentmindedly fiddling with the throw blanket between you on the couch. 

_His hands are so long,_ you thought. Wait, why were you thinking that? You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands. Or how long they were. Or what they could—

“Are you alright?”

You felt yourself twitch, startled by his sudden acknowledgment. Even more embarrassing, you were sure he’d seen you staring at his hands.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey,” he moved closer on the couch, “you don’t have to be sorry. It’s alright to not be okay.”

They were just words, they didn’t help. What did help was the care behind them. He wasn’t just saying it to comfort you, he actually meant it. To him, it really was ok to not be okay.

“Thank you, Spencer, that actually helps.”

You glanced at the clock. It was 10:26.

“I should do some schoolwork,” you said, cringing afterward. You didn’t want him to think of you as some school kid.

“Okay!” he chirped happily, standing as you stood like a proper gentleman. “I’ll just be out here. Is it okay if I keep watching?” The episode played on, The Doctor dangling from a rope above London. “I really like this episode,” he said sheepishly.

“Sure,” you chuckled. “I’ll be in my room and please let me know if you need anything, seriously.”

He nodded assent, but you weren’t sure if he actually would. He seemed a little withdrawn, comforting you when you needed but keeping his distance when possible. _It’s his job to keep you safe_ , you reminded yourself. _Don’t get excited._

An hour later your eyes watered from the strain of keeping them open. But you were _almost_ done with this paper. Sure, it was due next week but you were on a roll. Using an allusion to the Holocaust to support the point that Hollywood writing is riddled with antisemitism. In the morning, it might not sound as clever, but to your sleep-deprived brain, it was poetry.

A light knock on your door startled you.

“Come in,” you croaked.

Spencer peeked into your room, squinting.

“It’s pitch black in here,” he said, reaching for the light.

You shrieked as the light filled the room, blinding you.

“TOO BRIGHT!” you yelled, slamming your computer shut and throwing your arms over your eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he fumbled with the switch and clicked it off. The room was now shrouded in darkness, neither of you able to see yet.

“Are you there, Spencer?”

“Yeah.”

You were both whispering. Why was it that people whispered in the dark? 

“You should try and get some sleep,” Spencer said. He was becoming more visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. He had changed into a blue set of pajamas. The fabric looked so soft.

“Yeah,” you muttered, moving toward the bed, “Yeah, I’ll do that.” 

Your bed felt scratchy and cold. Just last night getting in bed had been such a relaxing experience. So much had changed in a day.

“I’ll be right in the next room if you need anything,” 

“Hmm,” you hummed.

Spencer padded back out of your room.

The moment before the door closed you thought you heard a very faint, “Good night, Y/N.” But before you could wonder if it had happened or not, you were dropping off into a deep sleep. Knowing that you were safe with Spencer in the next room.


	5. The Something In His Eyes

Over the next few days, you fell into a rhythm. You’d work on schoolwork remotely from your room. It was pretty easy to keep up with all the free time you had. 

So, obviously, the remaining time off was spent getting to know the enigma of a man that was Spencer Reid. You formed a rather strange acquaintanceship with him, not quite friends but more than a protector and protectee. The real question was who was protecting who?

You discovered many things about him, some quite apparent, others not. For example, you assumed he was very into technology as most nerdy types were. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He despised all things electronic, from e-books to computers themselves.

“Do you even own a cell phone?”

“Yes!” he insisted, driving you to work for the third day in a row. “Sure, it’s not a fancy smartphone, but I can dial numbers so much easier, anyway.” He handed you his old-school flip-phone.

“How do you text people on this thing?”

He laughed politely.

“I don’t.”

You took the time to interrogate him on the nuances of text language, something he lovingly referred to as ‘dreadfully impractical’.

_Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad._

Being constantly watched wasn’t as disconcerting as you’d expected. Well, being watched by Spencer wasn’t. You pretended you didn’t notice the dark blue honda with the tinted windows following you all the way to work and parking nearby. _Strange that the FBI seems to need lessons in being covert_.

Fortunately, rude customers and the smell of books managed to take your mind off your current situation.

What didn’t help was having to constantly stop Spencer from rearranging all the books in the shop.

“They’re categorized by the _Dewey Decimal System_ ,” he said, disgust in his tone making you stifle a giggle. “What? Everyone knows that the Library of Congress Classification System is far superior.”

“Maybe, but my workers have memorized the Dewey Decimal System. It’s easier.”

“But it’s too vague! When you’re categorizing books you need to work from all sorts of classifications. For example . . .”

It was amazing to see how passionate he was about sorting books. You’d never met a man that didn’t just throw a novel (or, more realistically, a comic book) back anywhere on the shelf when he’d finished it. Spencer treated each book as a separate piece of artwork, carefully placing them back in the correct spot without fail. He’d run his hands over the leather-bound covers, caressing them as delicately as possible. You couldn’t help but notice the swiftness and gracefulness at which his hands moved.

“You okay?” you snapped out of your stupor and found him standing much closer, a gentle hand on your shoulder.

You took a step back and cleared your throat.

“Yes, _ahem,_ sorry. I need to get back to work.”

Quickly, you walked back over to the front desk, starting to update the book index.

 _Maybe I should have requested Emily as my protector_ , you thought to yourself, dusting off a returned copy of _Fahrenheit 451_. Spencer was super nice and a huge dork. Maybe that was the problem. It was easy to start to think of him as a friend rather than someone just doing his job. Maybe if you’d met under different circumstances you might have been . . . friends. 

But that wasn’t the case. Spencer was there to protect you. Any teasing or joking around was just a formality. But why did he have to be so damn enticing?

Around nine o’clock, customers started to peter out. Soon, the only people left in the shop were you, Caleb, your co-worker, and Spencer, who’d been sitting on the window sill reading book after book.

“Hey, I’m gonna clock out,” Caleb said, stripping out of his work shirt. God, that man took any excuse to take his shirt off. You didn’t blame him all that much. D.C, even in the dead of winter, was hot as hell. And when you had a chest like that, one couldn’t be blamed for showing it off.

“Okay, be in tomorrow at ten. I don’t trust Claire to come in on time.”

“No prob,” he waltzed out the front door into the illuminated street, the bell tinkling lightly.

You stood and stretched, glancing over to the windowsill Spencer had been sitting in.

Shocked, you saw Spencer exactly where he’d been about an hour ago, slumped up on the windowsill, fast asleep, using a book as a pillow.

Strange, though it was, that this man was an FBI agent, you couldn’t help giggling at the sight of him sacked out like a toddler.

“Spencer?” you hated to disturb him but you knew that he’d want you to wake him up. “Spencer, wake up.”

He moaned uncomfortably and stretched, jumper lifting up slightly to expose his lean stomach. It took all the self-control you had not to stare.

“Whasitgonon?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

“You fell asleep,” you walked over to the loveseat in the center of the store and plopped down, sighing.

“Oh god. Sorry,” he stood, shaking himself awake and walking over to you, staring at the pile of books he’d devoured. “I guess I over-exerted myself.”

You scoffed. 

“Oh, come on. I thought you were a genius,” you teased, tossing a pillow at him.

With a little fumble, he caught it and sat down next to you, smiling.

“Yeah, but after a night of restlessness, anyone’s an idiot.” 

He said it with a sad smile, looking straight ahead. You decided not to ask about the restlessness.

“‘Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, and where care lodges—“

“—sleep will never lie,’” Spencer finished the quote for you. “Shakespeare.”

Without thinking, you looked at him, shocked to find he was already looking at you. There was something behind his eyes that made you freeze. Something curious. 

And suddenly, in that moment, that split second, something shifted. You knew it and Spencer did too. You could tell by the sudden dilation of his eyes and the sharp intake of breath he let slip.

He recognized his mistake and broke eye contact, glancing away and clearing his throat.

“What, uh, what time is it?” he said, looking for a clock while nonchalantly moving farther away on the loveseat.

“Nearly eleven,” you said, glancing at the grandfather clock, smiling at the fact he didn’t wear a watch. _Why is that so endearing_? “We can leave now if you like?” You grabbed your purse and started locking up.

“Isn’t it closing time?” 

“Well, usually customers stop coming in at around ten, but we close officially at eleven.”

“Then why stay? Why not just leave at ten?”

“I guess I like to think that if someone has a book emergency, it’s comforting to know that I’m here.”

You blushed. You’d never really told anyone that. Claire and Caleb probably had no idea that you stayed as late as you did. What was it that made you tell Spencer?

He hadn’t said anything so you looked at him.

The darkness of the shop made it so you could only see his silhouette. A tall figure against the light of the street lamps, he was poised and solid, staring out into the empty street. 

“Spencer?”

“Get behind me,” his tone scared you. He spoke with urgency and you could see his hand on his hip where he’d concealed his gun.

Without hesitation, you stepped behind a bookshelf, slightly peeking around it so you could see what he was doing.

He moved like a shadow, slipping out of the shop and moving onto the street, towards the dark blue honda down the road.

_Why is he sneaking up on the undercover car?_

There was a screech and the car zoomed off and Spencer leaped into a sprint, running after it.

It finally clicked in your brain and you scolded yourself for not realizing it earlier.

 _That wasn’t an FBI car_.

Becoming quickly aware of the danger you were in, you moved from behind the bookshelf to behind the loveseat, crouching as low as you could and trying to slow your breathing.

Your breath froze in your lungs as the soft sound of the bell by the door tinkled, alerting you that someone had entered the store. You snapped your hand over your mouth.

Praying it was Spencer but not actively believing it was, you stayed silent, waiting for the person to make themselves known.

“Y/N, it’s me. Are you here?”

It was Spencer.

You stood up from behind the sofa and ran to him, throwing your arms around him, hugging him tight and finally letting the tears fall from your eyes.

Feeling Spencer tense against you wasn’t the best feeling, but it was worth it for the way he melted into you after a moment, sliding his hands around your waist.

Breathing in deeply against his chest, you started to relax. His chest was harder than you’d thought. There were definitely some muscles he was keeping hidden.

Before you could enjoy the embrace too much, Spencer pulled back and looked at you.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes when you separated, but it was gone before you could analyze it, turning back to his professional demeanor.

“M-nine-L-D-G-seven,” he said robotically.

“What?” you said, removing your arms from around his neck and wiped the tears from your eyes, worrying that your brain had just short circuited.

“I got the plate but i’m sure he’ll replace it. It’s unlikely he’ll use that car again but I still need to report it.”

“I should have said something,” you murmured to yourself.

“What do you mean?” he said, whipping out his phone and typing rapidly.

“I saw the car following us earlier today. I assumed it was the protective detail.” Then, upon seeing the shocked look on his face: “I’m sorry, Spencer, I should have—“

His phone started to buzz and he answered it.

“Hotch? . . . Yeah just now. . . . Okay, I'll bring her in. . . . Yep, see you soon.”

He hung up and looked at you, a guilty expression on his face.

“I have to take you back to Quantico — uh — headquarters.”

“Okay.”

You stayed quiet the whole car ride. Spencer kept looking over at you, trying to be casual. Nothing felt casual. The way he held you in the bookstore wasn’t casual. The way he ran after a speeding car to protect you wasn’t casual. The way he’d stared into your eyes not long ago was . . . well, something, but not casual. You weren’t quite ready to explore that _something_ yet. 

The ride up in the elevator to the BAU was dead silent. _Another instance where elevator music would come in handy_. 

Your reflection in the elevator doors was strange. Alien. It wasn’t you. It was as though a ghost was in your body, keeping you upright as you watched from behind your eyes, unable to do anything. It was terrifying.

Then, warmth flooded your hand, Spencer’s fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing gently.

Without turning your head, you glanced at his reflection. He was staring straight ahead, no expression, but his thumb was drawing soft circles on the back of your hand.

Before the doors opened and Spencer’s hand slipped out of yours, you caught a glimpse of yourself again in the reflection, only for a split second. It was still not a you that you’d ever seen before, but for an entirely different reason. There wasn’t fear or worry in your eyes, but something more. The same something you’d seen earlier in the bookstore in Spencer’s. 

Stepping out of the elevator and into the bullpen, you found yourself wondering when this would all be over with.

And definitely, totally, _not_ wishing it might never end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is now also on Wattpad. username etherrealoblivion. <3


	6. It Is A Huge Bed

Spencer briefed the team on what had gone down. 

“I already texted Garcia the plate. I think our first priority should be increasing security.”

“No, that wouldn’t help,” Morgan said, walking over to the board where they’d pinned up all the murdered women. “If he knows we’ve increased security, he might start to kill quicker. He’ll feel threatened and—“

“—and be more likely to make a mistake!” Spencer butted in, “We’ve gotta catch this guy! Every second he’s out there, some poor woman is in danger! Y/N is in danger!” he slammed his hand on the table, making half the people in the room jump.

“Reid,” Hotch said quietly. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

The two men left the room, going into a separate office with the blinds closed.

Suddenly, it was colder. You felt exposed, open like a fresh wound that hasn't healed yet. 

“I’m sure Doctor Reid has already asked you this,” Emily sat next to you, speaking gently like you were a piece of fine china that one harsh word would break, “but think hard about who you’ve come in contact with in the past few weeks. Has anyone seemed to be especially nervous around you? Maybe someone showing up more often than normal?”

You shook your head quickly.

“No. No, there’s no one. I’ve been super busy, I barely have time to spend with anyone, much less a potential stalker.”

Emily backed off, changing the subject carefully.

“Okay, forget the past few weeks. Who came into your shop today?”

You scoffed. “There’s so many faces, they start to blur together. But no one stood out that I can remember.”

A blonde woman barged into the room, looking shocked.

“There’s another one.”

Emily, Morgan, and the man with the goatee stood, running out the door.

“Stay here!” Emily shouted to you.

Now alone in the room, you realized how very real this all was. There was actually someone stalking you. Someone killing people that looked like you. And now you were alone in the middle of the FBI headquarters, staring at a board with dead women’s faces on it. Women that were dead because of you.

Spencer, looking angry and blushing hard, and Hotch, facial expression incomprehensible, entered the room, shocked to find you there alone.

“Where is everyone?” Hotch asked.

“A lady came in and said that there was another one and they ran out. Emily told me to stay here.”

“They just  _ left _ you?!” Spencer said, a little too loud.

“Reid,” Hotch turned and blocked Spencer from your sight, whispering to him. You strained to hear what they were saying.

“Take her home, lock the doors, and stay with her. Don’t leave her alone. I’ll let you know what we find tomorrow. For now, let’s keep her from work. That’s the only place consistent. Keeping things the same didn’t change anything. It’s time to mix things up, get him confused.”

Spencer regained himself and nodded. Hotch shot you a look that — while hard to determine for his face always looked the same — seemed to be filled with sympathy.

The second Hotch was gone, Spencer was at your side, kneeling beside you.

“Are you okay?”

What a stupid question for a so-called genius. A question that is always impossible to answer.

“Yes,” you said quietly, the customary, frequently untrue response, and stood to walk out with him.

When you got to the car, Spencer motioned for you to stay behind him as he pulled out his gun and checked the car, making sure it was safe.

Your apartment was pitch black. But when you reached for the switch, Spencer said, “No. Leave it off.”

Without question, you followed him into your room, leaving a safe distance like he’d told you to.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, giving the all-clear.

So, you brushed your teeth, changed, and got in bed, Spencer at your side the whole time. It should have been unnerving, his looming, but it wasn't. It was . . . comforting.

He got changed in the living room, insisting on leaving the door open. When he brought his pillow from the couch and dropped it next to your bed on the floor, you protested, assuring him that you were fine.

“I’m sorry. Boss’s order. I can’t leave you alone. Not even in the next room. I need to stay with you.”

“Well, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor! It’s hardwood!”

“As I said, I can fall asleep anywhere,” he pretended to snore, “See?”

“How about you take the bed, I take the floor?”

“Nope, you’re not out-chivalry-ing me. Besides, your bed is  _ huge _ and I'd feel guilty.”

You laughed, then, all rational thought leaving your mind, “Then let’s just sleep together.”

Spencer froze. Feeling your soul leave your body in the silence that followed, you attempted phrasing that better.

“In the bed. We can both sleep together in the bed, I don’t mind. It  _ is  _ a  _ huge _ bed.”

Making eye-contact, Spencer’s eyes searched yours for any sign of discomfort. Once he was sure you were serious, he stood and sat on the bed, as far away as possible.

“Are you gonna get under the covers?” you heard the waver in your voice but tried to ignore it.

“You sure?” Spencer asked, pulling back the sheets.

You nodded, staring as he slipped underneath, foot brushing against yours causing you both to jump.

“Sorry,” he whispered awkwardly, shifting away.

“It’s okay.”

His eyes were so soft. Earlier, at the FBI headquarters, he was so angry you weren’t sure if he’d ever calm down. Now, his face was open and telling, the slightest twitch conveying all emotions.

“Are you gonna catch him?”

Spencer looked at you for a moment before replying.

“Yes. I’m . . .  _ We’re _ going to catch him.”

It was clear that he wasn’t just saying it to comfort you. He was making you a vow. He would catch the man after you if it was the last thing he did. It mattered to him. Not in the same way it mattered to Emily or Morgan or Hotch.  _ You _ mattered to him. At least, you hoped.

“What did they mean ‘there’s another one’?”

Spencer broke eye-contact, purposefully looking away.

“Spencer?” it was quieter than a whisper but he definitely heard you.

“Another body.”

Ah. 

Oh god. 

It was too much to bear. You felt the tears well up in your eyes. Trying to push them down, you turned away from Spencer. The last thing you wanted was for him to see you crying.

But more than anything, you wanted comfort. You wanted him to reach out and hold you, tell you that it was going to be alright. You wanted him to. . . . You wanted him.

The realization shocked you, having known this man only several days, but no more than the warm long hand that pressed against your shoulder.

A small gasp left your mouth before you could stop it. Spencer snatched his hand away and you spun back around to face him.

“I’m sorry, I—“

But before he could go on, you held your hand against his mouth, shushing him. His lips were rough from all the biting he constantly put them through. You had no doubt they’d still feel soft against yours.

_ Stop thinking like that! _

“Just. . . .”

But you couldn’t push away the thoughts. You wanted . . . more.

And rather than tell him, you moved closer, snuggling your head to his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist, clutching him as tight as you could.

Just like the hug from earlier, he froze for a moment, then relaxed into it, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tightly, gently.

Your bed was no longer scratchy nor cold. And with Spencer in your arms, you were asleep within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! thank you so much for all the support of this fic! I am working on something new so I am going to try to upload a chapter from this daily. remember there are seventeen total. apologies if I fall behind. more to come! love ya’ll. <3


	7. Spencerspective

Spencer didn’t fall asleep for hours. He tried not to keep watching the door, but keeping Y/N safe was more important than rest.

_ If you're exhausted tomorrow how are you supposed to protect her? _

Finally, with that thought in his mind, he let himself succumb to slumber, which was surprisingly easy with Y/N cuddled against him.

After a night of horrible dreams and tossing and turning, he woke up to the wonderful smell of shampoo and flowers. Following his nose and breathing deeply, eyes still closed, he found himself suddenly with a face full of hair.

Spencer yanked back, eyes blowing open.

_ No. No. No. _

It all came back in a rush. She’d gotten closer to him, holding him tighter than anyone had in a long time. And he hadn’t resisted. He’d given in to her so quickly.

It wasn’t like he didn’t like her. He did. Too much. His job was to protect her, not fall in . . . fall for her. Plus, it was taking advantage. She was only getting close to him  _ because  _ he was protecting her. It was a whole reverse Florence Nightingale situation. If they’d met anywhere else, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

But now, with her back pressed up against him — a little too much — how could he resist.

He had to. He couldn’t hurt her like that. He was just going to slip out of bed and go back to the floor. Without waking her up. Easy.

“ _ Mm _ ,” she moaned, stretching her spine and snuggling against him tighter.

Oh no. There was no way he could sneak away with one of his arms under her head and the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Not without waking her up.

How had he even gotten into this position? Looking back, it was his fault for pointing out just how large her bed truly was.

Wiggling a bit, she pulled a pillow closer, pushing herself even closer to him.

Now another problem was . . .  _ rising _ . Literally.

It was a no-win situation. He could slip out of bed, almost definitely waking her up resulting in a potentially huge misunderstanding. Or, she’d wake up before he could leave the bed and certainly feel his. . . .

He had to get up.

As gently as he could, he removed his hand from her waist and slipped the other one out from under her head, placing it softly back on the pillow.

Her whimper at the loss of his warmth was like a dagger through the heart. More than anything, he wished he could jump back in bed with her and comfort her, holding her how he’d wanted to last night. How he’d found himself holding her this morning.

_ Why are you so crazy for this girl?! You barely know her! _

“Spencer?” even with hours of sleep, her voice was still so melodic. If he weren’t so cold without her against him, he would have melted.

“Hey,” he said softly —  _ too softly, get it together, Spencer! _

“Is everything okay?” she rubbed her eyes sleepily, adorably. 

“Yeah, yeah, I just, um, had to go to the bathroom. I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“What time is it?”

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Nearly 1:30.”

“PM?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.”

She sat up and blinked, looking at the space on the bed where Spencer had been. 

Spencer cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him.

“What do you want to do today?” He tried to say it casually like he cared more about  _ what _ they’d do rather than what she  _ wanted _ to do. It was unclear if that had come across.

“I don’t know,” she wasn’t meeting his eyes. “I kinda wanna go out?”

Spencer froze.

“Go out? Like on a . . .” he trailed off.

“Like a date,” she mumbled, then, quickly: “As a cover, of course. I just think it might be a good distraction.”

But Spencer was already shaking his head fervently.

“It’s too dangerous. In fact, nightclubs are responsible for about 60 percent of rapes and 20 percent of murders. It’s the perfect place to commit most crimes. No one is paying any attention and—“

“Spencer!” she interrupted, “I didn’t mean a nightclub. I mean, seeing you dance sounds amazing but that’s not really my scene. What about like a restaurant?”

“A restaurant?”

He considered it. Respectable restaurants had professional waiters, unlike nightclubs; better security; and, best of all, they were more spaced out, meaning less opportunity for a stranger to get close. He’d have to be on high alert, though.

“I know a great place nearby,” she spoke up, breaking his train of thought. 

“I don’t know. . . .” he said, still wary.

“It’s walking distance.”

His mistake was meeting her eyes. She looked so hopeful, so helpless. Oh god, there was a hint of puppy dog eyes. How could he resist?

Seriously, how?

“Okay,” he said, giving in as she let out a little squeak of happiness, heart warming at the sound. “But at the slightest danger, we leave.”

“Yes! Of course!”

“And no alcohol.”

She hesitated for a split second, then sighed.

“Yes, okay.”

“And no dancing,” he added, sliding into the bathroom, leaving the door partially open.

“ _ WHAT! _ ?”

~

“Hey, it’s almost seven.”

Spencer and Y/N had been slumped on the couch for hours watching old episodes of Doctor Who and arguing about the science of time travel.

_ “Time doesn’t work that way! It’s like a line.” _

_ “But what if you went back and changed something?” _

_ “No, no, no, you  _ can’t _ do that because it would have already happened. Like if you in the future traveled to right now, it would happen right now, but since you didn’t just now, then it doesn’t happen in the future. It’s the rules of physics.” _

She’d scoffed at that.

_ “Maybe time doesn’t follow the rules of physics.” _

_ “Okay, speaking as a certified genius with a Ph.D. in Chemistry, you are on dangerous grounds.” _

And then she’d thrown a pillow at him, the both of them descending into giggles.

Spencer had almost forgotten why he was there. Why he was  _ really  _ there.

“Oh, yeah. Should we go?”

Y/N laughed derisively, gesturing to her t-shirt and pajama shorts.

“Not like this. Gimme fifteen minutes.”

She jumped up and ran to her bedroom, closing the door.

“Door open!” Spencer reminded her.

She stuck her head out and blew a raspberry but she did leave the door slightly ajar. Not enough that he could see what she was doing, just enough to know that she was safe.

Meanwhile, he rummaged through his bags, trying to find something appropriate to wear. Everything he had was either too casual or way too casual.

Finally settling on a cornflower blue dress shirt, a grey sweater to wear over it, dark slacks, and a jet black tie, he stood, waiting by the door and fidgeting with his sweater so it covered his revolver. He knew it made her nervous and didn’t want to put any stress on her that could be avoided.

The door to her room opened and Spencer’s head shot up. His jaw practically dropped.

Sure, her outfit was dazzling, small sparkly black heels, a short swishy blue dress that was both casual and classy (and happened to match his shirt), and long dangly earrings with little clocks on the ends, but what really got him was the way she was looking at him. Expectantly, patiently.

He realized she was waiting for him to say something.

“You look . . .” he tried so hard to think of a compliment that expressed his awe while remaining professional. “Stunning.”

A smile lit up her face and Spencer’s heart soared.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, adjusting his tie.

The contact made him jump.

“ _ Ahem, _ shall we?” he opened the door and held out his elbow for her to take.

“We shall.”

So she took his arm and they set off into the night, locking the door securely behind them.

An hour later, they walked up outside a small bistro, Spencer slightly out of breath.

“When you said walking distance. . . .”

“Three miles is walking distance!” she said defensively.

“For  _ superman _ !”

“Oh come on! You’re in the FBI, I'm sure you do your fair share of chasing bad guys.”

“I’m an FBI  _ profiler _ . And while I do enjoy the occasional walk through the park, exercise isn’t exactly my strong suit,” he explained, gesturing to his lanky body.

“Suppose not. Then again, I saw the way you ran after that blue car. I know you’ve got some hidden muscles under all that . . . dork.”

He feigned offense at her remark.

“Pardon me, ma’am, I am a  _ nerd _ . Very big difference.”

“Mm-hmm. Something only a dork would know,” she laughed, booping his nose and walking into the restaurant, Spencer taking a moment to be shocked before following her.

They got a nice table by the window at her request. It seemed she knew the waiter, calling him by his name and exchanging a brief greeting, introducing Spencer as  _ Doctor _ Reid.

“Have you been here a lot?”

“No, never, but the waiter here, Tom, works at my regular coffee shop. Barista by day, waiter by night.”

Spencer laughed softly.

_ Okay, so she’s never been here before, meaning she’s never been here before with a guy, meaning she wanted to take you somewhere special. Meaning she likes y— _

“Stop it!” he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. 

“Hmm?”

Spencer blushed.

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering about what to order. I don’t really go to a lot of restaurants, to be honest.”

“Me either,” she smiled softly at him and Spencer found himself smiling back.

“Ready to order,  _ Doctor _ Reid?” The waiter said, smiling.

“Ladies first,” Spencer said, relishing in the way Y/N smiled at him. This would be a long night.

~

“ . . . and the whole point of his writing is to experience a whole new idea of life!”

“Did you even read  _ Walden? _ ”

After the food came, a chicken empanada for Spencer and a bowl of pasta for Y/N, the conversation had somehow shifted to a heated discussion of what Henry David Thoreau’s ideals were.

“I’ve read . . . parts.” 

Spencer gave her a doubtful look and she sighed.

“I’ve read the Sparknotes.”

“Exactly! His point is to go live in the forest to achieve inner peace. The problem is, as humans, we need society and interactions with others in order to function. I actually had a coworker who had a cabin in the woods and he never mentioned becoming one with nature.”

“Well, maybe he just picked the wrong forest. Like, I couldn’t relax in the Forbidden Forest. It’s all about location.”

“Forbidden Forest?”

“Like from Harry Potter.”

Spencer glanced away.

“You’ve never read Harry Potter?” she said incredulously.

“Nope,” he blushed. “I’ve always preferred—“

“Oh god, please don’t say Twilight.”

“ _ Nooo _ ,” Spencer chuckled, “I was gonna say I prefer Doyle’s works.”

“Oh, I love Doyle!” she said happily. “Everybody always talks about Sherlock Holmes but have you read  _ The Narrative of John Smith _ ? It’s definitely some of his best work.”

Spencer’s mind went haywire. She had brought up his favorite book of all time in casual conversation. Who  _ was _ this girl?

“Spencer?”

He snapped out of his daydream and looked at the woman in front of him. She was working on two doctorates, she loved Doyle  _ and _ Doctor Who, she owned a goddamn bookstore, and she walked almost everywhere. How was he not supposed to fall for her? 

“ _ Spencer?” _

“Yes, yeah, sorry.”

The waiter came up and placed the check next to him.

“For the gentleman.” 

Avoiding eye-contact, Spencer took out his wallet to pay.

“Hey!” she swatted his hands away, making him drop his wallet into his lap. “We‘re not leaving yet! What’s the rush?”

This relaxed him a little. His nerves were starting to get to him.  _ C’mon, Spencer, you’re a professional. Get it together. _

“There’s no rush!” he quickly recovered. “I was simply checking to see if I had the adequate resources for the evening,” he smiled widely, waggling his eyebrows. But she had frozen, a shocked expression on her face.

“What?” she breathed.

Spencer cocked his head, not understanding her confusion. He was clearly reaching into his wallet for a surprise. What other  _ resources _ did people keep in their walle—

Then it hit him.

“Oh! Oh, no I meant. . .” he fumbled with his wallet, trying desperately to pull out—

“This!” a shiny golden key. “I, uh, have a surprise planned.” It was extremely hard not to blush, and he was even less sure he was succeeding.

But, upon seeing her face contort into one of excitement, he was reassured.

“Okay! What are you waiting for? Let’s go now!”

And she jumped up, leaving the appropriate change in the check.

“C’mon!” Spencer was about to protest her paying, but she was grabbing his hand and pulling him out of his seat, out of the restaurant.

“Hey, I’m supposed to be surprising you, here!” he protested, stopping her just outside the door.

“Fine, lead the way, Doctor,” she giggled, bowing deeply.

Spencer curtseyed and walked off in the direction they had come, his woman on his arm.

_ A _ woman, he corrected himself. Not his.

“So,” Y/N said after a while of walking, “Where  _ are _ you taking me?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Ha. You know, statistically, around eighty percent of people who say that, secretly love them.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she spun around and started to walk backward, maintaining eye contact, “but I’m not exactly a person that most statistics apply to.”

“So you don’t like surprises?”

She frowned.

“Touché.”

Spencer laughed as she spun back around, walking next to him. Their footsteps became a rhythm and they stayed silent for a while, just enjoying each other’s company.

Then, Y/N’s footsteps started to falter, breaking the pattern.

“You ok?” Spencer knew that people favoring the balls of their feet while walking was a sign of anxiety.

Rather than answer verbally, she yanked him down a dark alleyway, pushing against him.

“Y/N?”

She was holding him against her, her own back to the brick wall.

“I’m sorry, Spencer, this isn’t how I wanted it.”

“What are you sor— _ Mmf—“ _

A hand snaked around his tie and pulled him down sharply. Their lips met in an instant.

He should have pulled away. He should have stayed professional. He should have done anything but what he did.

Hands flying to the side of her face, he pulled her closer, coaxing open her mouth and moaning softly into it, feeling her hands travel down his waist, running along his belt.

Her lips were so soft. He’d wanted this so bad. And now that she was against him, lips against his, he realized how much he’d  _ needed _ it. It wasn’t fair to her. He’d deal with that later.

But before he could process anything else, a sudden weight left his hips, her lips left his, and the unmistakable noise of a gunshot rang through the air behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	8. Thank You

You’d never  _ held _ a gun before, much less fired one. Well, it was now or never.

The plan was in your head the moment you heard the footsteps that had been following you since the restaurant. You couldn’t say anything to Spencer. All you could do was hope that he noticed as well.

It should have been blatantly obvious when you pulled him into a dark alley.

Instead, he was confused, looking at you waiting for an explanation. There wasn’t time. The footsteps had followed you. The stalker was close by and probably going to pounce at any moment. You needed a distraction.

“I’m sorry, Spencer, this isn’t how I wanted it.”

“What are you sor— _ Mmf—“ _

You pulled him down, lips crashing together. For a moment, the terrible danger you were in was gone from your mind. All that existed was you and him, your arms on his chest, his in your hair, pulling you closer.

He ran his tongue along your mouth and you gasped. He took the opportunity and probed deeper, moaning softly.

The footsteps were so close, brutally reminding you of the danger you were in.

Smoothly, you slipped your hand down to Spencer’s belt. He had tried to cover up his gun but to no avail. The bulge under his sweater was too noticeable.

In a flash, you pulled back with Spencer’s gun in your hand, shoved him away, and aimed at the dark figure mere feet from you.

It was easy to copy what you’d seen in movies and TV shows. You squeezed the trigger, trying to point at the figure’s legs.

The gun went off and your arm flew backwards with the recoil. The sound rang in your ears and you collapsed onto the pavement, overwhelmed by the rush of adrenaline. 

Luckily, Spencer jumped into action, grabbing the gun from you and pointing it at the man.

“What the fuck!?” the man said, clutching his leg.

Your breath turned ragged as you saw the blood pouring from the middle of his thigh. Bile rose in your throat.

“FBI, don’t move,” Spencer said, his voice the dark tone it had been at Quantico. 

“She fuckin’ shot me!” he had mussed dark hair and five-o-clock shadow. You didn’t recognize him.

Spencer slowly reached down, whipped the man's arm around, pinning him to the ground.

A glint caught your eye. A small butterfly knife clattered to the ground, landing right in front of you.

“Y/N, get my phone and call Hotch, speed-dial one, tell him where to meet us. Quick!” he added at your hesitation.

So you got to work, dialing the number, fingers trembling as you held the phone, and waiting for backup to arrive.

When it finally did, the man was rushed off in an ambulance and you and Spencer got in a big black SUV.

“Morgan’s taking us back to your apartment. It’s gonna be okay.”

He was holding both of your hands in one of his, the other stroking your back gently.

Your mind was on autopilot. Firing a gun was much harder than you’d expected. It’d been so heavy, the trigger so hard to pull. The knockback was much stronger than anyone said. Looking at your hand, there was a mark where the gun had hit it.

Spencer noticed and rubbed softly, tenderly. It took all the strength you had to meet his eyes. The moment you did, all thought left you.

He was staring so deeply, so kindly, you wanted to cry right then and there. There was an understanding behind them that you weren’t ready for. It was too much. You broke his gaze, moving farther away in the backseat.

If he was hurt, he didn’t show it. Just continued stroking your back and holding your hands, softly whispering that it would be okay.

When the two of you got back to your apartment, Spencer sat you on your bed, taking off your shoes and handing you a glass of water.

You downed it in one swig, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Spencer walked over to your dresser, reaching for the top drawer.

“May I?”

You nodded.

He handed you a baggy sleep t-shirt and turned to leave in order to give you privacy.

“Wait!” you blurted.

Spencer froze and turned back to you. At the sight of you opening and closing your mouth, not knowing what to say, he nodded and sat in your desk chair.

“I’m going to turn my back but I’m right here. It’s okay.”

Nodding, you unzipped your dress, letting it fall down your shoulders. Too slowly, you remembered that the dress had a built-in bra and clutched the t-shirt to your chest, gasping.

Spencer twitched in the chair, but he didn’t turn around.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Once you were confident that he wasn’t going to turn around, you slipped your shirt over your head and kicked off your dress.

Now, as comfortable as you could be, you laid down, pulling the covers over you.

“Okay,” you called, voice cracking.

Spencer turned back the moment you spoke, rushing to your side.

“Okay, now listen. I’m gonna be right on the floor next to you, awake, all night. Okay?”

“On the floor?”

Having just grabbed his pillow from your bed, he paused.

You elaborated. “I just. . . . Don’t wanna sleep alone.”

Without saying another word, he tossed his pillow next to yours and laid down on top of the covers.

“Why are you still with me?” it came out harsher than you’d meant it. “I mean, you caught the guy. You don’t need to protect me anymore.” 

Glancing at him, you were surprised to find him looking guilty. Like he was keeping a secret.

“What is it?”

“He’s not . . .” he trailed off.

Spencer wasn’t telling her something.

“Who’s not? What aren’t they?” you sat up, staring at him.

He cringed and met your eyes reluctantly.

“The man tonight approached us, attacking with a knife. Now, this is more indicative of a mugger or a pick-pocket. Not a killer and certainly not a stalker. At least not the type we’ve profiled.”

Your breath went cold in your throat.

“So . . .”

“He’s not our guy. The murderer is still out there.” He said it so sadly. So sorrowfully. Like he knew how much it would hurt you.

But it didn’t. Not as much as it should have. For some reason, when Spencer was near, you were fearless. 

_ Stop attributing your strength to a man! You’re strong by yourself, _ an incessant voice inside your head whispered.

Okay, you were a strong independent woman that took down a mugger pretty much single-handedly, never having used a gun before. And getting an earth-shattering kiss in the process. 

You were pretty badass.

But it wasn’t like it was either be a badass or enjoy having someone protect you. Why not both? You weren’t a goddamn damsel in distress and Spencer Reid wasn’t your fucking knight in shining armor. But couldn’t you enjoy the fantasy?

If you liked him, you liked him for him. Not because he was protecting you. Because he was so absolutely, unequivocally, unapologetically  _ himself _ .

He was staring at the door to your bedroom intently, eyes sharp and gaze fixed. The cogs in his brain were turning so loud you could practically hear them. It was like he was bracing himself for something.

“Spencer.”

Your whisper made him jump ever so slightly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not gonna thank you.”

He met your eyes and you knew immediately that there was relief there. He didn’t want to be thanked. He was just doing his job.

“Please don’t.”

It was barely audible but you heard it. He said it the kindest way possible. So why did it hurt like hell?

He was just doing his job. He didn’t want anything more. No matter how hungrily he’d kissed you in the alley, no matter how his hands had threaded into your hair, no matter how he’d deepened the kiss so enthusiastically, you knew it was a spur of the moment thing. He didn’t like you like that really.  _ It’s his job, it’s his job, it’s his job, _ you repeated to yourself, hoping you’d eventually believe it.

Then, gently, softly, his hand grasped yours, fingers lacing together. His thumb rubbed your skin in small circles so intimately. Like he was memorizing the layout of your hand.

And with that simple gesture, everything you thought you knew went away. All that mattered was you and him, lying side by side, hands entwined. And you were happy. And that was enough.


	9. Wanna Bet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** risque content. alcohol. ***

The man’s name was Benicio “Benny” Sallow. He worked at a seven-eleven near the restaurant. He had seen you and Spencer leave the restaurant, clocked out, and followed you for a few blocks with the intent to steal your purse and his wallet. Apparently, he wasn’t even planning on injuring you, just using the knife as leverage. 

So the killer was still out there, presumably keeping very close by, according to Spencer. It took you a while to explain why that didn’t make you feel any better.

The day after the incident, you’d had to go back to Quantico to be briefed. It was getting tiring having to go back and forth all the time. But you supposed it was good to be kept in the loop.

Now, you were confined to your apartment 24/7. Groceries now had to be delivered, Spencer answering the door each time, gun in hand, exchanging a verbal password with the delivery person.

Sure, it was safer, but the danger felt even more real now. Luckily, your  _ protector _ was taking extreme measures to keep you distracted.

“Now throw it!” he shouted, prompting you to chuck the pillow towards the empty trash can, now on the third round of a game Spencer had dubbed “pillowball”. 

It landed just shy of the basket and you groaned as Spencer laughed.

“Oh, I’d like to see you do better,  _ glasses _ ,” you teased, shoving him another pillow.

“I don’t even wear glasses anymore!”

“Just throw the pillow, dork.”

He reared back, squinting, looking all around. You had to stifle a laugh as you pictured little mathematical equations floating through the air around his head.

And he threw the pillow, soaring through the air towards the basket  _ and _ . . .

. . . landed on a shelf just above the basket, knocking over a broom.

“Ha!” you jumped on the couch, jostling the broom. “Might wanna get your eyes checked again.”

“Sure about that?” he said, a little too cocky.

Your face fell, looking at the pillow. As you had sat on the couch, you’d made the broom hit the wall, making the shelf move, tipping over a large book that bumped the pillow. It fell forward and landed perfectly in the basket.

Awestruck, you looked at Spencer and he bowed low, shooting you a mischievous look.

“Lucky shot,” you said, forcefully switching your facial expression to an unimpressed one.

“Oh come on!” he whined, sitting across from you on the couch. “That was cool, don’t deny it.”

“There was no way you could’ve known I was gonna sit and knock the broom!”

“Couldn’t I have?”

“ _ No _ !”

“You know,” he took the pillow from the basket and turned it over in his hands, “jealousy usually manifests itself in denial.”

“Hey! I am not jealous!”

“I mean even though you’re not capable of a shot like that, there’s no reason to be jealous,” he gave you a sidelong glance, slight smile on his lips.

“Not capable?”

“Well, you aren’t!”

“Wanna bet?”

Having to prove him wrong, you snatched up your pillow and went back to the doorway.

“Bet? Y/N, I’m from Vegas. I never lose a bet. You might want to think twice about that challenge.”

“If I don’t make this shot, I’ll watch that five-hour long movie that you won’t stop talking about.”

All of the cockiness was wiped from Spencer’s face.

“You’ll watch Solaris with me?”

“If I fail this shot, I will,” you said, smiling at the fact that he’d added ‘with me’ to the odds. 

“What if you make it?”

A wicked smile spread across your face.

“If I make it, we pop open the 20 year Jim Beam I've got in the cabinet.”

Spencer unconsciously glanced at the kitchen cupboard, then shook his head.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Y/N. Becoming intoxicated could lower inhibitions, making us less aware of—“

“—so you admit it’s a possibility I make the shot?”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it, shooting you a frustrated look.

You held out your hand for him to shake, knowing he despised handshakes.

“C’mon, Mister Vegas. I thought you never lose a bet?”

His eyebrows twitched but the hint of a smile ghosted over his face.

“Deal,” he said, shaking your hand, only slightly twitching at the contact. 

Sparing a quick glance at the ceiling, then the clock, you threw the pillow towards the basket, but it missed, landing just to the right on the arm of the couch.

Spencer beamed. 

“Oh, well. I hope your study for that linguistics doctorate involves Russian. Great try, but like I said, I never lose.”

You cocked your head.

“Sure about that?”

A whirring noise caught his attention, turning towards the air vent right over the bedroom door. The gust caught the pillow and pushed it forward, making it land right in the basket. Spencer’s jaw dropped.

“Landlord always clicks on the A.C. at 8:25 on the dot.”

As you bragged, you walked over to the kitchen cabinet, standing on your toes to reach the bottle of bourbon and bringing it back to the couch where Spencer sat.

“How . . .”

“Face it, Vegas, you lost. Now, drink up!”

You took a swig from the bottle and handed it to him. 

“We really shouldn’t—“

“Spencer.” All joking gone from your tone, you stared at him, silently begging. “Please. I need to feel . . . something else.”

Waiting a moment to speak, presumably going through possible outcomes and scenarios in his head, he finally sighed and took the bottle from you, pressing it to his lips and drinking.

As expected though, he proceeded to cough heavily, handing the bottle back to you.

“Jeez! You made it look so easy.”

You laughed, taking another drink.

“Years of practice.”

“Years?”

Shit. He definitely knew you weren’t that far from drinking age, making the word  _ years _ rather compromising.

“Not  _ years  _ per se.”

“Uh-huh,” he said sarcastically, taking the bottle from you and downing the smallest sip so as not to cough. “You know, alcohol might actually help you get through Solaris. If we’re going to be living together for a while I  _ will _ make you watch it.”

You paused, trying to clock what he meant by ‘living together’.

“I am not watching that movie willingly. How ‘bout double or nothing?”

Intrigued, he watched you carefully, moving to sit on his legs.

“Go on. . . .”

You smiled, getting more comfortable on the couch.

“I’m gonna make an assumption, and if it’s true, you drink. If it’s not, I drink.”

“Is that a Game of Thrones reference?” 

Shocked, you nodded.

“Doctor Reid, I’m surprised.” Then, thinking about his love for Doctor Who, Doyle, and strange sci-fi films like Solaris, you figured you should have seen this coming. “Actually, not all that surprised. So yes! It is a Game of Thrones reference and I’m gonna wipe the floor with you.”

“I think you’re forgetting, I’m an FBI  _ profiler.  _ It’s my  _ job _ to read people.”

“So you accept my challenge?” You jumped up, grabbed two glasses, and sat back down, pouring the bourbon into each glass evenly, handing one to Spencer.

After thinking a moment, he took the glass and said, “I do. Provided I get to go first.”

You nodded, gesturing for him to go.

“You . . . have a complicated relationship with your parents.”

Scoffing, you said, “Seriously? Everyone has a complicated relationship with their parents! Thought you were a big shot profiler.” And you took a small sip.

“I’m starting off easy,” he said, reclining a bit more and stretching out his legs towards you. “Your go.”

“You . . . you were bullied in high school.”

He shrugged and took a drink.

“You don’t join the FBI without some childhood trauma,” he said it so casually but there was something more in his tone that he couldn’t hide. That no one could.

“My turn,” he said, pulling you away from your thoughts. Right. That was the goal of all this. Distraction.

“Go,” you said, sitting up and moving a bit closer.

“So,” he said, gazing around your apartment and swirling the liquid in his glass, “there’s no photographs in your apartment, at least none that I’ve seen. But you’re not unsentimental judging by your attachment to the locket that was stolen from you. So you just don’t have any photographs to hang up.”

“I’m not hearing an assumption, Doctor.”

“You don’t have a lot of friends. Probably only a few close ones that you rarely get to see.”

Normally, if someone commented on your lack of friends, you’d lash out and walk away, probably calling them various unkind names. But when Spencer said it, there wasn’t any judgment. Only sympathy. Like he knew exactly what not having a lot of friends felt like.

It was true, you didn’t have a lot of friends. The only person you really considered to be a friend was Steve, and you hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. You wondered if he was worried about you suddenly cutting off contact, staying home from school and work. You wondered if he even noticed.

So you took a sip, smiling sadly at Spencer. And he smiled back. Neither of you had to say anything else about it.

“Alright, get ready to get drunk.” 

He snorted at you, alcohol starting to affect him.

“Guess away, I’m an open book.”

“You, Spencer Reid,” he laughed a little when you said his name, dropping his head to the back of the couch. “You . . . cannot handle your alcohol.”

He giggled, raising his glass to his lips but you stopped him.

“Ah! That wasn’t my assumption. I was just making an astute observation. Now, as I was saying. My assumption is . . . you are a virgin.”

He was struck, clearly not expecting such a personal guess. You waited for him to drink, but instead he just stared at you. Then, he blushed, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, still not making any move to drink.

Aw. Maybe you’d crossed a line. Maybe he was embarrassed by the fact that—

Wait. 

He still wasn’t drinking, just looking at you sheepishly, like he was waiting for something.

Waiting for you to drink.

So you did, keeping eye-contact with him the whole time, watching as he fidgeted nervously.

Your assumption had been wrong. Interesting. 


	10. Drink!

“Ooh!” you sat forward, leaning against his shoulder. “Tell me all about it!”

“About it?” Realization flashed over his face. “Oh no. No, no, no!”

“Please, please, please!” You pulled his legs up into your lap, trying to hold on as he kicked you off. “You can’t leave me hanging like that!”

“Drink!”

“What?”

“You assume I can’t leave you hanging when, in fact, I can. Drink.”

_ Smart-ass _ . 

Taking another sip, you shoved him backward. Now, you were both lying down, heads propped on each arm of the couch, facing one another. You giggled and shoved your feet in Spencer’s face.

“ _ Pfft _ . Hey! Alright, my turn,” his hands were grasping your ankles now to keep you from kicking. It felt nice.

“Go.”

“When you were in the fourth grade, a boy named Sammy Pierce pulled your hair and you punched him, knocking out three of his teeth.”

Struck speechless, your mouth fell open. You’d never told anyone about that.

“How the hell—“

“—It’s in your file.”

Snatching up the pillow from the basket, you whacked him over the head.

“ _ Ow!” _

“That’s cheating!”

“It’s simply using all available resources. Drink up.”

“Ah, ah. Not quite. I did knock Sammy Pierce’s teeth out in the fourth grade, but Sammy is short for Samantha.”

Spencer’s face fell.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice the lack of gendered pronouns in the file!”

Lifting his cup to his mouth, you said, “Just goes to show you shouldn’t assume gender.”

“You’re right that’s on me. Your turn.”

“So, you’re not a virgin.” He glanced away again, tinting pink. “How old were you?”

“That’s not an assumption.”

“You were under twenty when you lost it.”

He shook his head and you drank.

“Over twenty?”

He drank.

“Twenty-one?”

His lack of movement was your cue to drink.

“Twenty-two?”

He drank.

“ _ Twenty-two?! _ Why so old?”

“I don’t know!” his tone defensive, he rambled, “It just never happened before then. Not a lot of girls liked what I have.”

“Drink!”

“What, why?”

“Oh I’m  _ so _ sure that  _ no  _ girl would want to be with the cute, smart,  _ tall _ , nerdy Doctor who kisses like—“

Trailing off, you felt Spencer tense across from you, hands releasing your ankles. The two of you hadn’t discussed the kiss at all since it happened. You figured it’d be best to ignore it and assumed he thought the same.

As smooth as possible, he cleared his throat and said, “Actually, uh, I’ve never really had someone interested in me before. Not romantically, at least.”

“But you’ve had sex, someone liked you!” 

Spencer simply looked you in the eyes, joyless expression on his face, and said, “Drink.”

A small gasp escaped your lips when you realized what that implied. So you complied, letting yourself indulge a bit.

“She didn’t like you?”

He took a sip.

“Most women tend to go for someone that they find handsome, strong, and charming. Being none of those things, I’m at a disadvantage, but, luckily, I’m apparently the perfect guy to make your boyfriend jealous. Fortunately, it worked,” he added with a derisive laugh. “At least, he was jealous enough to take it out on me.”

His eyes shone with the tears he was holding back. Before you could stop yourself, you shifted on the couch so you could hug him, laying in his arms.

Surprisingly, he didn’t tense this time like he had every other. He relaxed into the embrace instantly, wrapping his arms around you and burying his nose in your hair.

_ Just comfort him. You’re just comforting him. Don’t do anything else. _

But, like an idiot, you lifted your head and looked at him. Your eyes met and the air was charged with the sudden tension. Faces mere inches apart, you couldn’t help glancing down at his lips.

“We should really get to sleep,” he whispered, breath soft against your cheek.

“Drink.”

He laughed softly at your joke, closing his eyes. His lashes were so long. You wondered if he could feel them against his cheek. His lips looked so soft . . . and so close . . . The mix of booze and hormones from being so close got to you, and you leaned in, pleased to see that he was too.

_ BOOM! _

The two of you snapped apart and Spencer stood, swaying only slightly as he withdrew his gun, leaving the safety on.

“Go in your room, lock the door, don’t come out until I tell you.”

“Spencer—“

“ _ Now!” _

But you lowered his hand holding the gun, speaking calmly.

“Spencer, it’s thunder.” He froze like a deer in the headlights, staring at you. “Look.”

Pulling him to the window, you opened it, watching him watch the rain, a blank look on his face.  _ He’s so . . . _ the word ‘handsome’ didn’t cut it. He was beautiful.

A lightning strike lit up the city, followed instantly by a loud thunderclap. Spencer twitched next to you.

You chuckled lightly and he looked at you, blushing.

“Are you scared of thunder?”

“On average, twenty-seven people die from lightning strikes in the U.S. every year. And that’s not counting fires caused by lightning. The odds of being struck in your lifetime are one in three-thousand, now that doesn’t sound like a lot but it is. In fact—“

“ _ But _ , most lightning deaths and injuries occur in the summer. In Florida. I doubt you’re gonna get struck in the dead of winter . . . in D.C. . . .  _ Inside _ .”

He laughed politely, sitting on the windowsill.

“I guess.”

You took his hand, pulling him back to the couch. And he let you.

“You wanna keep playing?” you asked him once you’d gotten comfortable (keeping a respectable distance).

“Drink.”

You laughed, taking a sip.

“Fine. We don’t have to. What do you wanna do?”

He made a noncommittal noise, shrugging then said, “You?” Upon seeing your reaction, he blushed and clarified. “I meant, I don’t know. What about you? Not . . . I mean not that . . . Um. What would you like to do?”

You smiled. The way he rambled when he was nervous was charming. It was horrible to think someone had taken advantage of him. A part of you found yourself hating the girl who’d used him to deal with her own problems.

_ Isn’t that what you’re doing? _

Shut up!

Focusing back on his question, you said, “You made up the pillow toss game, I made up the drinking game. It’s your turn again.”

“To pick a game?”

“Or make one up!”

“I don’t know. . . . We could play poker?”

“Great! Wait, I don’t have cards.”

He pulled his duffel bag towards him and fished out a worn deck of cards.

“Lucky for you, I came prepared. What should we use for chips?”

“I have chocolates?”

“That works.”

So you stumbled onto the floor, sitting across from him as he shuffled, and divided the chocolates between you.

“You know how to play?”

Rather than answer, you took a sip of your drink, confirming his assumption.

Smiling at you, he dealt the cards.

“Alrighty. The game is five-card draw, nothing’s wild, ante is two kisses.  _ Chocolates _ ,” he corrected, blushing. “Chocolate kisses. You know, no one knows how kisses got their name, not even the company. The legend says it’s named for the sound the machines make during manufacturing.”

The rambling would never get old. It was the most adorable quirk ever.

“Ante in,” both of you put in the appropriate amount of chocolates, “and the person to the left of the dealer goes first.”

So you played a few rounds, Spencer winning most of them, folding when he knew he couldn’t win. It started to get tedious.

“Okay, this is not working. Your computer brain cannot be beat! Turn it off!”

“I think that would involve a lot more alcohol or a  _ huge _ distraction. And I’m not comfortable ingesting any more bourbon. I need some wits about me.”

_ To keep you safe _ , was what he didn’t say. 

“A distraction, then.” A tiny lightbulb lit up your brain. “Okay, deal the cards, I have an idea.”

“What—“

“Just deal!”

So he did, you played a round and lost. But when you handed over your cards, you stripped off one of your socks and tossed it at Spencer. He caught it deftly, confused.

“This is your distraction? Throwing socks at me?”

“Nope. New rules: if you lose, you give up an item of clothing.”

Spencer went pale, staring at the purple sock in his hand.

“Y/N . . . are you suggesting . . .  _ strip poker?” _

“No. I’m  _ playing _ strip poker. With you.” You shot him a mischievous smile and watched his expression as he did the math on the amount of clothes you were each wearing. 

“Deal the cards, Vegas.”


	11. Fantasy

After a bit of obligatory protesting, Spencer gave in and you were now on the sixth round of strip poker.

Turns out the prospect of losing clothes was an excellent distraction because you were now almost tied with the young doctor, him winning three and you, two.

“Getting into dangerous ground, here,” you teased, rearranging the cards in your hand.

Socks had been the first to go and Spencer had just been forced to surrender his cardigan. The rules were simple, you’d play until one of you gave up. . . . or ran out of clothes.

“Actually, what you’ve devised as a so-called ‘distraction’ could function as motivation to win. If anything, I'm more determined.”

“Says the guy missing both socks,” and you tossed in three chocolates. “Flip ‘em, Doctor.”

He had a flush.  _ Shit. _ That beat your straight. The only clothing items you still had were your pants, shirt, bra, and underwear. It was big decision time.

“You don’t have to—“

“—I’m the one that wanted to play. I don’t back down.”

You probably shouldn’t have kept drinking. It was getting harder to determine a good idea from a bad one. You unbuttoned your jeans and tossed them across the room toward the laundry basket, Spencer looking pointedly away. This felt like a good one.

“If you admit defeat, we can stop.” It would have sounded cocky if his expression weren’t so soft. He wasn’t challenging you, he was giving you an out.

An out that you were not about to take.

“In your dreams!” you slurred, taking another swig of bourbon, handing the bottle to Spencer. 

He dealt the cards and you played another hand. The poker gods decided to bless you with a full house.

Spencer had two pair.

“Take it off!” you squealed, laughing so hard that you fell backward on the floor.

Surprisingly, he didn’t protest, just giggled goofily and stood up (rather sloppily, intoxication slowly becoming more apparent).

“Now, the cricktical— _ critical _ decision: pants or shirt?”

It was hilarious seeing him like this, all timidity and apprehension gone. Just open and vulnerable and having a great time.

“Shirt!” you called up to him from the floor. He looked so tall above you.

“Pants it is!” he declared, trying to pull them down, but falling forward and landing next to you, jeans pooling around his ankles.

There was an instant of eye-contact, both of you terrified that a line had been crossed — you were inches away with your pants off. Then you suppressed a laugh, sending the two of you into a fit of giggles that hurt your sides.

“Ow! Oh god it hurts!” you said through laughter, clutching your stomach.

But Spencer, ever the hero, snapped to attention, looking at you seriously.

“Are you in pain?”

His response only made you laugh harder. After you got your wits back to you, an idea popped into your head.

“Ooh! It’s my turn to pick a game!”

“I don’t know . . . I really think we should go to s—“

“You got to pick two games! It’s my turn.”

“Technically, it was your idea to play strip poker.”

Ignoring him you said, “We’re gonna play truth or dare!”

“How do you play?”

“ _ What _ ?!” you sat up and stared at him, agog. Distracted for a moment by the way he had his arms under his head, displaying the slight bicep there, you quickly recuperated. “It’s a super common game. You never played it like when you were in high school?”

He shook his head. Actually, that made sense.

“Ok, here’s how it works,” and you explained the rules, with some difficulty. He definitely would have picked it up quicker without the effects that the booze was having on his mind. He had trouble focusing and needed you to repeat yourself every so often. He clearly didn’t drink very frequently.

“So I ask you truth or dare?”

“Yes. Um. Dare!”

“I have to come up with one? Can I google?”

“No!”

“Fine, um. I dare you to . . . lick your elbow?”

“Spencer, that's so lame. They’ve gotta be saucy! I’ll go first, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Boring. Ok. Um. What’s your biggest sexual fantasy?” The alcohol was definitely getting to you.

“ _ What?!” _

His shocked expression was so adorable you chortled.

“You have to answer! That’s the rules.”

“I don’t know! I don’t really think about . . .  _ that _ all that much.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah,” he blushed and looked away.

A cute, smart, tall guy who loves the things you do, keeps you safe, and isn’t always thinking about sex. 

“But . . .” he murmured softly.

Your mind raced. Was he going to tell you? No, he wouldn’t. Would he?

“I guess I like the idea of . . . being in control?”

The moment it was said out loud, he yelped and grabbed a pillow, shoving it over his face and whimpering, embarrassed.

Meanwhile, horrible, wonderful thoughts popped up in your head and your gaze wandered down towards his boxers, eyeing the sizeable bump there. Imagining Spencer on top of you, controlling you, long fingers wrapping around your neck, or maybe sliding—

_ Stop! _ you told yourself, forcing your eyes shut.  _ You’re drunk and so is he. _

Spencer mumbled from under the pillow.

“I can’t hear you.”

He threw off the pillow, a grumpy look on his face.

“I said, truth or dare!”

You smiled, glad that he was getting into the game, despite the embarrassment.

“I’ll follow your lead. Truth. But you have to make it just as risky or more than my question!”

“I can’t ask you something like that! It’s unprofessional.”

It was ironic and you both knew it. Here you were, laying on the floor with him, pants off, drunk off your asses, and talking about sexual fantasies. It couldn’t get any  _ more _ unprofessional.

_ Oh, yes it could. _

Shut up!

“Ask me!!”

“Fine! Um. What’s the best sex you’ve ever had?”

“ _ Woah! _ I was not expecting that!”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, no! I’m impressed actually. It’s just a difficult question.”

“Too many times to choose from?”

“Actually, not enough. The partner’s I’ve had weren’t exactly . . . generous. Sex for me has always been about other people. Not about what I want.”

“So you’ve never . . . ?”

“Not with someone. By myself, sure, no problem. But no one’s really been able to get me to that point.”  _ Or close to it. _

You looked at him and were surprised to find him looking at you. The eye-contact was so intense, it went right through you, sending a chill through your body. A good chill.

“Are you cold?”

His voice was rough and deeper than normal, sending another spark through you. Reminding you how he’d talked about wanting to be in control. . .

“A little.”

The temperature had to be close to freezing. And your landlord wasn’t keen on spending a bunch of money on heat, not when the tenants could just ‘buy more blankets’.

“I think we should go to sleep.”

Sparing a glance at the clock, you were surprised to find that it was already 12:47.

“I think you’re right.” But when you tried to stand, you stumbled, tripping over Spencer’s legs and landing on him, straddling his waist, your hands on his chest, your core right above his. . . .

The sudden weight on him must have startled him because his hands were on your hips, holding you steady.

For a moment you stayed still, enjoying the feeling of being so close to him, the alcohol giving you a warm buzzy feeling. You weren’t sure but there was the faint feeling of something pressing up between your legs. Something hard.

Spencer cleared his throat and shifted under you, guiding you off of him as gently as possible, his strong hands lifting up your hips.

You tried not to dwell on the feeling.

“We could just sleep out here?” you offered. The floor in the living room was rather comfortable and there were enough pillows and blankets nearby to warm up.

“Sure, that sounds good.”

So you made up a little nest and laid down next to him. This time, neither of you hesitated to snuggle up together. 

“Does anyone call you Spence?”

“One person does. Though, not as much lately. Why?”

“I’m gonna call you Spence. But only when I feel like it.”

“Okay,” he said softly, sweetly.

You fell asleep almost instantly due to the mix of inebriation and the comforting feeling of Spencer pressed up against you.

Too busy dreaming about what life would be like if you and Spencer were sleeping together in an entirely different sense, you didn’t hear the sound of someone sneaking in through the open window.


	12. We May Have A Problem

When you woke up, Spencer was standing, fully dressed and talking on the phone.

“No, I didn’t hear anything. . . . Yes, it had been open but this morning it was closed and so was her bedroom door. . . . A new one? . . . What book? . . . Okay, I understand. . . . Yes, sir. . . . You too.”

He hung up, running a hand through his hair and turning towards you. Startled to see you awake, he came near and sat on the couch.

“Hey,” his voice was much gentler than it had just been on the phone. Presumably, he’d been talking to Hotch, his boss.

“You said ‘A new one’. Is there a new victim?”

“I really don’t think—“

“Spencer.” You didn’t have time to argue with him about whether or not you should know what was going on. “I need to know.”

He must’ve known it was no use putting up a fight. He sighed softly before he spoke, setting the tone for the conversation.

“Yes. There’s a new victim, pushing the total up to six. I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said, more to himself than you.

“I need to know,” you repeated, urging him to go on. “Please.”

Silent for a moment, he said, “Okay, but first get dressed and eat breakfast. Then we’ll sit down and talk.”

Right. You were still missing your pants. And your last shred of dignity.

So you stood, went to your bedroom, and dressed in jeans and a tank top. It would be a decidedly unremarkable outfit if not for the fact you never wore very exposing clothes, such as a tank top. This particular one happened to expose just the right amount of skin. You wondered if Spencer would notice. Not that that was important! Someone had been killed, for christ sakes.

“What time did you get up?”

He’d found a box of cereal and poured two bowls. The living room was much cleaner and you suspected he’d tidied up, ridding the room of evidence of last night.

“Six,” he said with a mouthful of cereal, not sparing you a look. “Y/N, there’s something I need to tell y—“

You had stepped into his line of sight and his jaw had dropped. It was like a moment out of a sitcom.

“What is it?”

Suddenly aware of the way he was gaping at you, he adjusted, looking at you in confusion.

“What’s what?”

You would have laughed at his shock if not for the pressing matter at hand.

“You said there’s something you need to tell me?” and you sat next to him, picking up the bowl of cereal and eating.

“Right. Yes, um. . . .” he hesitated for a moment, putting down his bowl and breathing deeply. When he looked at you, you understood that there was something more to what had happened.

“Just tell me,” you took his hand in yours and he let you. Strange how you were the one in danger but you frequently found yourself comforting him. Not that you were complaining! It actually felt nice to take care of someone else. Made you feel less useless.

“Last night . . .” you drew a quick breath in anticipation of the discussion to come. “Last night, someone snuck into the apartment.”

You released the breath you’d been holding. That wasn’t what you were expecting. You waited for him to go on.

“When I woke up, the window and door to your bedroom were closed even though last night they’d been open. Someone must have entered the apartment. Presumably the stalker. I’ve already called the team and they’re sending a unit over.”

He paused, giving you the opportunity to ask, “Why didn’t he . . . kill me?”

“We’re operating under the assumption that he doesn’t want to kill you. He wants to play out a fantasy with you but since he’s too scared to approach you, he has to substitute you with other women. However, we have to assume that he won’t stop killing until he finds some way to play out his fantasy with you.”

“What’s the fantasy?”

Spencer paused. 

“We aren’t quite sure. Each of the victims was killed in a unique manner based on certain books. A copy of each book was found at the crime scene. We’re still unsure as to why he’s choosing these specific books as there’s not a lot that connects them.”

“How did he kill them?” you didn’t want to know but you had to.

He seemed to understand this so he answered without too much protest.

“The first victim was found with a copy of  _ The Handmaid's Tale _ . She’d had her eye scratched out and was hanged. The second book was  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ , victim found stabbed next to a self-portrait.  _ The Telltale Heart _ and  _ The Great Gatsby _ pretty much speak for themselves. The most recent one was  _ 1984 _ . She, uh . . . had a cage strapped to her head and . . . well, you can picture the rest. Are you okay?”

Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, breath frozen in your throat, putting a pattern together.

“That’s only five. What book did the new one have? How was she killed?”

“Oh, um.  _ A Clockwork Orange _ . It looked like he made her jump out of a window. What’s wrong?”

You stood and started to pace slowly, processing all this information. Absentmindedly, biting your nails, you thought hard if it was just a coincidence.

_ It can’t be. Is it? It must! _

“Y/N!” Spencer was in front of you, crouching slightly with his hands on your shoulders. “What’s wrong? Should I not have told you?”

Rather than answer, you pulled him to your room, flicked on the light, and sat on the floor in front of your nightstand. Underneath it was a little cabinet, both doors closed, a little latch locking them.

You looked at Spencer. He looked so worried like it was his fault all this was happening. You wished you could kiss all worries away so that it was just him and you and nothing else. But you couldn’t. There was something far more pressing now.

With a flick of your wrist, you unlocked the cabinet and opened it. There were two little shelves, each holding an assortment of books.

“I keep my oldest classic books in here,” you said, watching his expression change to understanding as he saw the books.

The first six on the top shelf were the exact ones that had been found at each crime scene.

~

Spencer’s team had arrived two hours later, preceded by an entire Crime Scene Investigation unit. Your entire apartment was cordoned off, the only people in and out being the FBI personnel, so you were standing in the hallway, watching people help themselves to your apartment.

“Y/N?” it was the blonde woman. “I’m sorry we haven’t been formally introduced, I’m Jennifer Jareau, I’m the media liaison. We’ve decided to release this case to the press. It might help push the killer out of hiding, attract more attention.”

You nodded, understanding what that meant. They’d have to give all sorts of details that involved you. What the victims looked like: you. Why he was killing them: you. And who he was really after: . . . you.

“We also need to change your cover, move you to a safer spot.”

You looked at her, confused.

“Why?”

“He clearly knows where you live, who is with you, and how to get in. We’re going to relocate you to a secure location. Doctor Reid will take you as soon as your things are packed.”

“Wait, I don’t want to go somewhere else. I wanna stay here. Can’t you just put more cops nearby?”

You were being stubborn, you knew. But your apartment was the only place you felt comfortable anymore, anywhere else and there was the threat of being attacked. Only now, that threat applied here.

“We need to keep as many people working on catching the unsub as possible. The more people worrying about you, the less trying to catch this guy.”

It was blunt but she was right. They needed to be focusing on taking him down, not keeping you safe. They needed the best people on the case.  _ Then why. . . ? _

“Then why is Spence the one protecting me? He’s a literal genius, shouldn’t he be heading up the case?”

She looked at you quizzically, like she was trying to figure you out.

“What?” you spat harshly, having had enough of not getting answers.

Coolly, surely from years of experience dealing with impatient people, she replied, “Doctor Reid has expressed a . . .  _ request _ to keep his assignment with you.”

You took a moment to process that information.  _ He’d asked to stay with me. _ He’d requested it.

“Why?”

Jennifer was looking at you analytically; like she was deciding the right thing to say.

“I don’t know.” And you knew she was telling the truth. She honestly had no idea why Spencer would choose to stay with you rather than help catch the killer. 

You smiled politely at her, “Thank you, Jennifer.”

“My friends call me J.J.” she smiled back, lightly placing a hand on your arm comfortingly. Her phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me.”

And she left you in the hallway, surrounded by people yet feeling so alone, wondering when Spencer would be back.

~

J.J. had to work late, fixing the stupid paperwork error she’d made earlier. Hotch was the only one still there.

Deciding to check in with him before she left, she knocked on the door to his office, already stepping in.

“Hey, I’m gonna head out. You good?”

“Hmm,” he grunted, not looking up from the case file.

Debating whether or not to prod, she sat in the chair across from him. He glanced at her, realizing he’d been dismissive.

“Sorry,” he said, wiping a hand over his face and sighing. 

J.J. chuckled. “It’s ok. It’s been a rough week.”

“Tell me about it. This guy hasn’t been leaving any indicators of who he is, where he works, and why he’s targeting this girl.” Hotch slapped the file and sat back.

J.J. shuffled in her seat awkwardly.

“Has Reid ever . . .”

But she trailed off, prompting Hotch to look at her seriously.

“Has Reid ever what?”

“Has he ever  _ asked _ to be assigned as a protector? Rather than be in on the case?”

Hotch looked at her suspiciously, trying to recall previous cases.

“Not that I can remember. Why? Wondering what makes this case different?”

J.J. shook her head. 

“It’s not the case.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled sheepishly.

“We may have a problem. Earlier, outside her apartment, she was talking about how she didn’t want to move locations. And—”

“—Well, that’s normal. She feels comfortable where she is, wary of pushing her comfort zone.”

“Hotch,” J.J. said seriously, prompting Hotch to look at her again. “She called him ‘Spence’.”

After a moment Hotch sighed, face-palming.

“Shit.”


	13. Just For Tonight

The entrance to the hotel was stylish. The marble floors and golden detailing screamed ‘you can’t afford me’. 

Spencer was carrying both your suitcases. The two of you wore sunglasses and hats. It made you laugh at first, the idea of dressing up like undercover superheroes. 

“Isn’t it just gonna make us more suspicious?”

“Actually, people tend to glance over those with their eyes or hair obscured. It’s more useful than most people think.”

“Uh-huh.” Bullshit.

So here you were, standing slightly behind Spencer as he talked to the woman at the front desk.

“Hello. Reservation for Chris Kelvin.”

The woman smiled and typed away at the keyboard. Then her face fell.

“Ah. I’m sorry Mr. Kelvin, we did try to get in touch with you. We left multiple messages.”

The FBI had taken your and Spencer’s phones. Something about tracking.

“What, is there a problem with the reservation?” The worry seeped into his voice, and the woman quickly reassured him.

“Oh, no. Well, slightly. You booked a double room but I’m afraid that there’s a bridal convention in town and all the double rooms have been booked up.”

“So, what, you don’t have any rooms?”

_ That’s not what she said, _ you thought bitterly.

“No, sir. We’ve had to change your reservation to a single bedroom. But! We are able to knock a few hundred dollars off the price.”

Spencer was silent, gaping at her.

She nervously fumbled through a drawer, looking to sweeten the pot.

“And . . . um . . . I can offer an all-inclusive couple’s spa treatment for you and your wife.”

She pulled out two coupons and handed them to Spencer. He made no move to take them.

As awkward as it was, you recovered enough to lean forward and take the tickets.

“Thank you,” and you hooked your arm around his elbow. “My husband and I appreciate it.”

You pulled him away from the front desk toward the elevator. Once the doors had shut, you let go, taking your suitcase from him.

“Sorry about that,” you said, adjusting your hat. “Figured it was less suspicious to just go along with it.”

He nodded curtly and didn’t say another word until you got to your room.

Despite the warning, you still found yourself surprised by the lone bed in the center of the room. There were two closets, two desks, and even two sinks in the bathroom. Was it that hard to put another bed?

If you weren’t so distracted by the prospect of sleeping with the man you had a crush on in a fancy hotel bed, you might have appreciated how fancy the room actually was.

You busied yourself with hanging up and putting away your clothes. You’d only had time to pack a couple of outfits and two sets of pajamas. The hotel probably had quick laundry machines, though. You weren’t worried.

Spencer, however, was nervously looking through the room, presumably for any kind of cameras or listening device.

Taking off your hat and glasses and throwing them on the desk, you said, “J.J. said they already did a sweep of the room.”

“Yeah, well, J.J. knows everything, right?” he spat bitterly, throwing his arms up.

You didn’t say anything, just stared at him. He melted under your gaze, realizing how harsh he’d been.

“I’m sorry that was . . . I’m sorry. I’m a bit stressed. J.J. just . . . sometimes she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Before the two of you had left for the hotel, J.J. had pulled Spencer aside for a moment, whispering to him so you couldn’t hear. Afterward, he seemed agitated, more snappy.  _ Did she say something about me? _ No. She wouldn’t. Right?

“It’s okay,” you said calmly, checking out the gorgeous bathroom — could a bathroom be gorgeous? — “I know all about being stressed. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said quickly, an automatic reaction. “No, thank you, but I’m ok.”

“Okay,” maybe it was best not to press the issue. Only now did you register how dark it was outside. How had that much time passed since this morning? Maybe all the questions and consent forms you had to deal with forced your brain into autopilot, making time move faster. “I’m gonna get changed.”

A few minutes later you came out of the bathroom, wearing a large sleep shirt and underwear. You couldn’t bother with pajama pants right now. Besides, he’d seen you in your underwear before. It wasn’t crossing a line. Right?

He took one look at you and said, “I’ll make the request for a rollaway bed.” and picked up the phone on the nightstand.

“No!” he looked at you, waiting for an explanation. You had to think quickly to find one. “I mean, won’t that be suspicious? If they think we’re a married couple. . . .”

After analyzing you for a moment, he sighed and put the phone down.

“You’re right. I’ll take the floor.”

“Spencer, you don’t have to take the floor. We’ve had this conversation.”

“I can’t handle being . . . I’ll be fine, thank you.” 

It was so sad to watch him pull the pillows from the sofa to the floor, covering them with a blanket and taking a pillow from the bed. Did he not want to sleep with you that bad? Did he not like you that much?

“Please . . .” 

God, you were pitiful. This man was practically begging to stay away from you but you persisted. But he  _ had _ asked to stay assigned to you.  _ And what was that about not handling?  _ The mixed signals were pulling your heart this way and that, constantly unsure of what to do next, of what was too far.

But Spencer looked at you with that same something in his eyes you’d seen before. You knew it was more than . . . whatever you currently had. It was greater than wanting, than hoping. The gravity of it hit you harder than you’d expected and as you stared into his dark hazel eyes, you felt your own beginning to well up with tears.

His face fell and he got up from the floor and sat on the bed, arms finding their way around you, coaxing you to lay down with him. 

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed into his dress-shirt. 

“Shh,” he ran his fingers through your hair, smoothing it out and gently untangling it. It was a gesture filled with affection, adoration . . .  _ love? _

“I’m just so . . .” the words escaped you, but Spencer pulled back and looked at you, eyes probing yours, a slight smile on his lips.

“I know,” was all he said.

And in that instant, you knew. You knew absolutely the very last thing that would ever matter. That you were utterly, truly in love with Spencer Reid. And there was no way you could ever be together.

Somehow, the expression on your face must have shown your realization, for his own countenance shifted to one of understanding. His smile was gone but he wasn’t frowning. He was looking at you in a whole new light.

The moment broke when you thoughtlessly glanced at his lips. His perfect, pink lips that he constantly licked and bit. He pulled back slightly, not breaking eye-contact.

You didn’t have to speak but you did anyway. Barely a whisper.

“Spencer . . .”

“We can’t. I’m—”

“I know.”

But you continued staring at each other. You decided to test the waters by leaning in ever so slightly. His eyes widened but he didn’t protest or back away. But it wasn’t a ‘yes’.

Your lips were inches apart, slightly open, the two of you breathing heavily.

“Just for tonight,” you said, brushing your mouth against his ever so gently, barely making contact, but just enough to force a soft moan from his throat.

“Y/N . . . we really can’t.”

“Spencer.” You took his hand firmly in yours. “Just for tonight. Once. No more. And we can forget about it.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. If you kissed, not as part of some plan or distraction technique, but for real, neither of you would ever forget it.

“Just for tonight?”

You nodded, placing a delicate hand on his cheek, making him gasp so softly, leaning into it.

“Just for tonight. Once.”

“Just for tonight.”

And he closed the gap between you, your lips meeting in a surge of fire and sparks. The kiss went through you, echoing in your bones. He was electricity against you. He was light.

His lips slowly pressed against yours and he ran his tongue along your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open so he could delve deeper. It was more than a kiss. It was the release of all the tension and feelings that had built up over the few weeks you’d known him. You tried with all your might to convey the love you felt for him, biting his lips, pulling his hair, and yanking him closer to you.

Neither of you wanted to break it. You’d said only once. The moment it was over . . . it would be over.

But soon you were both out of breath, mouths hanging open against one another, too scared to pull away to see the others' reaction.

Simultaneously, you pulled back, staring at each other, trying to analyze your reactions. A slight smile found its way to your lips, provoking Spencer to share in it.

You wanted to lean in again. To say ‘fuck it’ and have him right here, right now, in this bed. To have all of him and give him all of you. But you’d said only once. Just for tonight.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

And you turned around, snuggling into him as you had before. Only this time, there was more to it. More than could be described with words.

You’d said ‘just for tonight’, probably hoping that it would somehow apply to the feelings you had as well. Come morning, you would discover that wasn’t how love worked. That wasn’t how love worked at all.


	14. Closest Friend

And the morning came. The light streaming in from the window blinding you as you were awoken by a loud banging noise.

Spencer, wrapped around you a moment ago, stood instantly, drawing his gun from the nightstand and tiptoeing toward the door.

The banging continued, far harder than any hotel employee would knock. Spencer peeked through the peephole and turned towards you, confused.

“Who is it?” you asked.

“ _ Y/N? Are you in there? What the hell is going on?” _

Through the door, the voice of your best friend was still recognizable as ever.

“Steve?” you walked towards the door, but Spencer stopped you with a strong arm.

“What do you want?” when he spoke it was deeper than normal like he was putting on a voice, trying to be intimidating.

“ _ Who else is in there? Are you in danger?” _ Steve was also trying to sound tough, but the nervousness seeped through his voice. “ _ I’m coming in _ !”

“No don’t!”

But the door slammed open, Steve barging through and instantly regretting it when he saw the gun in Spencer’s hand.

“Woah!” he threw his hands up. “Don’t shoot me!”

You pushed Spencer away, forcing his arm holding the gun down. Standing between him and Steve you said, “Spencer, this is Steve, my friend. Steve, this is Spencer. He’s my . . . he’s protecting me.”

“Protecting you? Jesus, christ what’s going on?! I went to your apartment last night and there were cops everywhere! They wouldn’t tell me anything, I thought you were dead!”

Sighing, you waved Spencer away and led Steve to the couch.

“Please, sit.”

So he did, keeping a wary eye on Spencer, who was doing the same. This was going to be difficult.

“Steve. A couple of weeks ago, someone broke into my apartment. I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want you to worry. So I went to the police. But, when I was explaining what happened, the FBI showed up.”

And you sat across from him, describing all that had happened. Slowly, a look of realization spread across his face the more you explained.

“So that’s why I’ve had a cop car following me pretty much everywhere for the past two weeks?”

Mouth falling open, you looked at Spencer who glanced away sheepishly. After giving him a stern look that said ‘we’ll talk about this later’, you turned back to Steve, expression soft.

“Yes. They had to check out everyone close to me. You were my closest friend so I had to tell them about you.”

Steve glanced at Spencer, probably questioning the past tense way you’d referred to your friendship.

“So this guy—“

“—is an FBI agent.”

But now, Spencer spoke, rather harshly, stepping close to Steve.

“Yeah. A behavior analyst. And what I’m curious about is how  _ you _ found us so fast. More importantly, you don’t seem to understand how much you’ve put Y/N in danger by coming here. Possibly exposing her cover and leaving her more vulnerable to the crazy person after her who I’m not entirely sure  _ isn’t _ you!”

It was upsetting seeing him so angry, but he had a point.

“Steve, how did you find us so fast?”

He just shrugged. “I followed that cop car that’s always outside your apartment. You know, the dark blue one.”

Your head snapped to Spencer’s who did the same. He withdrew his gun again and stepped towards the door.

“Stay here,” he commanded, nodding towards Steve.

And he withdrew his phone, dialing a number, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving you and Steve alone.

Your friend’s face was pale.

“That wasn’t a cop car.”

“No,” you sighed. “No it wasn’t.”

~

Three hours later and Spencer was checking you out of the hotel, accompanied by a full-on SWAT team. Apparently, the FBI was not that fond of the killer finding you so fast. After bringing Steve into custody — to which you protested heavily — they determined the threat to be real, as there were no cop cars following you and his description matched the car that had been outside your bookstore all those days ago.

“What’s going on?” it was a hotel maid, walking up casually next to you.

“They’re closing the hotel. There was a killer nearby,” you replied truthfully.

“Jesus! You’d think they’d at least tell the staff.”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever. Gives me more time to prepare for a cute date with a hot barista. Or . . . the other way around.”

You smiled at her, appreciating the small distraction from all the chaos.

“What’s your name?”

But before you could think of an answer, Spencer was at your side, politely excusing you and leaving the building.

“Where do we go now?”

“I don’t know.”

And you got in a car with him, drove for miles and miles through forest and farmland, every now and then, taking an unexpected turn down a hidden road, waiting for a moment, then continuing on.

You didn’t bother asking where you were headed. In fact, you weren’t entirely sure Spencer knew either.

This had been such a strange experience in so many ways. You didn’t even know what day it was anymore. Time was a distant concept to you now, only living minute to minute, relying on Spencer to tell you if something needed to be done.

Is this who you were now? How long was it going to be like this? Was the end even in sight?

Then, finally, you turned down a rough dirt road, thinking it was another false path. But the car kept rolling until it stopped about 100 feet away from a small cottage. 

“Is this it?”

Spencer nodded and you noticed his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. You placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“Spencer?”

He looked at you, emotions raw on the surface of his face.

“This place . . . it belonged to an old friend of mine. No one really knows about it.”

There was more to it than he was saying. Something had happened here that made him reluctant to come back. 

“Are we going to go in?”

He jumped a little and turned off the car.

“Yeah.”

The inside was nice and cozy. It was much more comforting than the prim and proper hotel room. More homey.

But Spencer was avoiding looking at anything for too long.

“You okay?”

He nodded curtly, taking the suitcases to the bedroom.  _ One bedroom again _ .

If you believed in fate, you might think it was a sign from the universe, telling you that you were destined to be together. But how? It was totally inappropriate. He was a government employee, assigned to protect you. And yet the chemistry between you was undeniable.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Help yourself to food and stuff. Just make yourself at home. . . .”

It struck you that those were close to the same words you had said when he had first moved into your apartment.  _ Is ‘moved in’ even the right term? _

“Look,” his voice was soft and he was standing in front of the large window in the living room, a look of wonder on his face.

You stood next to him, looking out into the front yard as the start of the first winter snow began to dust over the ground.

“Wait . . .” you looked around for a calendar. It wouldn’t help though, you didn’t even know what day of the week it was anymore. But if your estimation was right . . . “Is it . . ?”

Spencer smiled lightly, a crinkle in his eyes as he nodded.

“It is.”

You both stared out the window and his hand found its way into yours, clutching gently.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”


	15. Fuck It

The awkwardness toned down after a while. There wasn’t much more you could be embarrassed about now that you’d been sleeping in the same bed together for days. What was strange was the fact that it was Christmas Eve and neither of you really knew what to do.

“Should we celebrate?” he asked finally after a few episodes of the strange true crime show on VHS — it was called Felon’s Brains and Spencer hated it, but there wasn’t any cable this far out and there were fifteen seasons of it on tape.

“I’m not sure.” Christmas hasn't always been a happy holiday for you. That coupled with the fact that you were hiding from a killer, what was there to celebrate?

Looking over at Spencer sitting next to you on the couch, his face contorted as he thought hard.  _ There’s something to celebrate. _

“When was the last time you ate?” While he was skinny in the first place, his shirts seemed to be falling a little looser lately.

It was a good question judging by the way he had trouble remembering.

“I’m not sure. A few days ago.”

You would be surprised, but there hadn’t really been many opportunities for either of you to eat. You’d grabbed an apple just before you left the hotel but that was pretty much the only food you’d had in a while.

“We should have a feast,” you said excitedly, your stomach grumbling at the thought. Spencer also looked relieved, probably more at the idea of keeping busy.

“Okay! I’m not all that sure what’s in the pantry.”

The yield was minuscule, but you could make the best of it. Surprisingly, there was an old pasta maker with a stiff crank, but it would work well enough. There was flour, eggs, olive oil, all the ingredients to make pasta from scratch.

However, when presented with this idea, Spencer blistered.

“I’ve said this before, I’m, uh, not exactly a chef.”

You smiled gently at him, gathering the ingredients.

“Me either. But pasta from scratch is like the one meal I can make. And there’s some canned vegetables in the pantry. You can prepare those.”

He seemed daunted by the idea, but moved to the cabinet and took out several cans.

So you did your best making the pasta (perhaps adding a bit too much flour) and soon the meal was ready.

“Oh my god!”

“What?” you said nervously, watching him swallow the first bite of pasta.

“This is amazing!” he dug in, savoring it. “How did you learn to make this?”

Pleased, you took a bite yourself. It did taste really good. But so did Spencer’s vegetables.

“I learned from my old . . . roommate.”

You tried to play off the slip. Hopefully, he’d go along with it.

“Cool! Well, it’s delicious. Thank you.”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled, sending a spark through you and you grinned back at him.

“You know, this isn’t a bad Christmas Eve.”

He nodded, glancing from the meal to the window to you. Startled at the sudden eye-contact, you looked away, no doubt a blush spreading to your cheeks.

Spencer cleared his throat; he did that a lot.

“ _ Ahem, _ did you know that Christmas is just the evolution of a popular holiday in the Roman Empire that celebrated the winter solstice as a symbol of the resurgence of the sun, the casting away of winter and—“

“While it does drive me crazy when you ramble, in a very good way, maybe we could talk about something a bit more personal?”

He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or relieved.

“Sure. Like what?”

“Hmm. What was your favorite Christmas?”

A bright smile lit up his face.

“The Christmas after my tenth birthday. My dad dressed up like Santa and we went and saw reindeer in Baskin’s park. I got to ride one. My mom was so scared the whole time. She kept thinking I was going to fall off, even though my dad was right next to me the whole time. That was really the last family time we had. He left the next year.”

His smile turned to a frown.

To change the subject, you took the plates to the sink, then sat on the couch, patting the place next to you. Spencer stood and ambled over, plopping down next to you, attempting to smile. Your positions were similar to how they’d been in the bookstore, all those nights ago. Strange how close you’d grown after such little time.

“What about you? What was your favorite Christmas?” he asked.

You took one look at him, wearing a thick burgundy sweater that looked far too scratchy to be comfortable, woolen mismatched socks, and regular jeans, his head tipped back on the couch and staring at you so sweetly, awaiting your response.

“This one.”

You had whispered it so quietly you would have been sure he didn’t hear it . . . if not for the sharp intake of breath next to you.

Quickly moving past that, you said, “I’m not sure. I’ve never really had super special Christmases. I mean presents and stuff is great, but none really stand out. Well, stand out in a positive light.”

He chewed on that for a minute.

“Then what’s been your worst Christmas?”

You shot him a look, “I’m not sure you wanna hear about that.”

“I do! Here,” he scooched closer, picking up your legs and swinging them into his lap, surprising you with the closeness of the gesture, “I’ll go first. My worst Christmas was the year after my dad left. I didn’t get any presents because he wasn’t there and my mom was admitted.”

“Admitted?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“She, um, she has Schizophrenia. She lives in a mental facility.”

It was such a personal confession, you weren’t sure what to say.  _ He told you something extremely private! That’s good! _ Right? No. If anything it just blurred the lines of your relationship further. Was he telling you to indulge you, make you feel more comfortable with him knowing so many personal things about you, or did he actually want to share that part of himself with you? Either way, you needed to acknowledge it.

“I’m here, Spencer.”

He looked at you in surprise.

“Most people say they’re sorry when I tell them that.”

_ Shit _ . 

“Oh, I didn’t mean—“

“No, no,” his eyes were full of curiosity and wonderment. “I’m actually grateful. It’s weird when people apologize because there’s really no right response. I can say, ‘it’s okay’, which is a lie; ‘thank you’, even though I’m not really thankful; or I can ignore it which is just mean. An apology creates an unconscious obligation.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, digesting the words.

“I promise never to apologize to you,” you said, smiling.

He smiled back, chuckling softly. “I promise, too.”

“My worst Christmas was last year.” He adjusted his position so he could look at you better. “I had just started my Linguistics PhD so my schedule was constantly full. At the time I was living with my ex-boyfriend, Matthew. He, um, had problems with me being gone so frequently; he always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing. So when I surprised him by coming home early on Christmas Eve, I thought he’d be pleased. Turns out there was a reason he was so obsessed with my schedule. He didn’t want me coming home to someone else in our bed.

“I remember when I walked in and saw them together how sad I was. But even more so, I was relieved. Looking back on it, I was just looking for an excuse to get out of that relationship.” You looked off in thought. “Huh. I’d never really thought about that.”

His hands were slowly patting your legs, sliding up and down your clothed shin. It seemed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

“I’m here for you.”

He had said it as a comfort, as a substitute for ‘I’m sorry’, but you couldn’t help taking it as though he was saying he was there for you and he always would be, unlike your ex. Spencer seemed to realize this, his hands freezing on your leg. 

But he kept stroking after a moment, and said, “I never liked the name Matthew. So pretentious.”

You laughed lightly, reaching out for his hand, clasping it in yours and running your thumb along the back. 

“Spencer. How is this going to end?”

When the FBI had first talked to you, Morgan had assured you that the stalker wasn’t trying to kill you. But then why were they being so protective of you? 

He waited a moment before answering, holding your hand tightly.

“The model of a stalker killer deciding to rehearse his fantasy multiple times with possible intent to have you complete the final scenario concludes itself with one of two possibilities. The more likely being the stalker will kill himself.”

“What’s the other possibility?”

Embers from the fire snapped and crackled in the heavy silence.

“He’ll kill the object of his desire.” 

Although you had kind of put together the fact that there was more to the danger you were in, it still came as a shock to have it confirmed.

“Have you had cases like this before?”

He paused, biting his lip.

“Yes.”

“And how do they end?”

“The ones we win, the victim goes through therapy, the stalker goes to prison, and eventually we move on. It never goes away, but it gets better.”

You nodded seriously.

“What about the ones you lose?”

As the logs in the fire snapped again, a lightbulb burned out, making a loud popping noise above your head and shrouding the room in darkness.

Spencer stood on the couch, adjusting the bulb.

“Sorry, I guess there’s not the best electricity out here.”

“Well, there’s a generator out front. It’s probably just the lightbulb.”

“No, these lightbulbs were changed recently. Are you sure you saw a generator?”

You nodded.

“Then it must be the circuitry.”

He unscrewed the bulb and sat back down, setting it on the end table. The only light in the room came from the fire. It cast a golden glow over his sharp features, drawing your attention to the cut of his jaw and the plumpness of his lips. The firelight in his eyes as he stared sparked something inside you; a sort of sudden urgency.

You sat up, moving closer to him on the couch. His hazel eyes glowed in the soft light of the room. 

Slowly, you brought your hand to his face, gently caressing his cheek. His lips parted and his eyes grew dark, glancing down at your lips.

The threat of death was just around the corner, closer than you’d thought. You loved Spencer and you needed him to know before . . .

“Y/N. . . .”

It was barely a whisper but you felt it in every part of your body.

Letting the feeling wash over you, you picked up his hand, placing it on your cheek and melting into the touch.

Spencer stroked your cheek, thumb brushing against your lips. You parted them, staring at him as you mouthed his thumb. 

He suddenly pulled back, balling his hands into fists and trying to catch his breath.

“Listen, there’s this thing called ‘transference’ it’s when—“

“Spencer, I like you.”  _ Well, that was one way to shut him up. _

At his shocked expression, you quickly burst into a ramble. “Not because you’re protecting me, I've thought hard about this. I can protect myself, I'm not helpless. That being said, everything about you makes me want to be with you. The fact you love reading, knowing all sorts of random facts, you love memorizing lists, the way you raise your eyebrows when you’re shocked like you’re doing now. I want  _ you _ , not the idea of you. I want you.” You said the last part with such conviction you thought you’d explode.

Meanwhile, Spencer was speechless.

Testing the waters, you leaned in as slowly as you could, giving him the opportunity to stop you if he wanted. 

When your mouths were millimeters apart, neither of you moving, just breathing heavily, you said, “You don’t want this?”

“Drink,” and the second he said it, your lips met harshly with tongue and teeth clacking together. It was desperate, urgent the way you pulled him on top of you, laying back on the couch. His hands were everywhere at once, running through your hair, snaking around your waist, brushing against your neck. 

Breaking the kiss to pull his sweater over his head, you marveled at his bare chest. It was different than you’d pictured. Not muscular per se, but not nearly as scrawny. It was perfect. He was perfect.

He hesitated at your gaze, so you pulled him back down, ravishing his mouth and scraping your nails down him back, leaving a trail of white marks.

But, ever the hero, he pulled back, shaking his head softly.

“Wait, wait . . .”

The absence of his mouth was unbearable, but you would respect his boundaries. Although you knew now that if anything, it was his job interfering with his feelings for you. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you. He just couldn’t have you.

The thought was too much, you looked away from him, still hovering above you. When, after a moment, he still hadn’t moved, you looked at him, surprised to see an extremely pained expression on his face.

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowing. For him, that seemed to be the last straw for he sighed and leaned back down muttering, “Fuck it,” and kissing you harder than ever before.

It was the first time he’d cursed in front of you. Moaning against his mouth, you could feel his fingers brush against the skin of your sides. You gasped at the contact and he started to pull back, but you pulled him closer, nipping his lips and letting your legs fall open, closing any gap between you.

He grunted softly and inadvertently thrust against you in just the right spot, causing you to thread your fingers through his hair and pull. 

The yank made him gasp and his hips jerked unconsciously against yours.

“D-do that again,” he whispered between kisses. 

Delighted, you did, hard, your other hand desperately trying to unbuckle his belt. He occupied himself with kissing up and down your neck, occasionally biting and subsequently soothing with licks.

You finally got his belt undone, throwing it to the floor as he pulled your shirt over your head. He pulled back for a moment, admiring you. Your bra wasn’t all that special, just a plain tan one, but Spencer looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Tired of the space between you, you pulled him back, kissing him deeply and moving his hand to your breast. The moment he was given permission, his hand slipped underneath, kneading gently.

As you popped the button on his jeans and shoved them down his legs, he found the clasp of your bra and snapped it, probably breaking something in the process. Now your chest was bare, Spencer’s hands moving all over your body, soaking up every inch possible. You gently reached down and felt his hard length, both of you moaning at the contact. He thrust into your hand, desperate for more.

But you had to stop him, you pulled him back, hands moving to gently grasp his cheeks, holding his face inches from yours.

He seemed alarmed by the shift, stopping all movement and staring into your eyes.

In that moment, with him on top of you, looking at you with such care, such caution, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world and he’d do anything you asked in an instant, you realized you needed to tell him. If you kept it in any longer you’d burst.

He knew what you were going to say the moment before you said it.

“I love you.”

The two of you held eye contact for a moment, the only sound in the room your breath. Then, his expression softened and he opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could say anything, there was a loud  _ THWACK _ and he fell forward onto you, unconscious. Behind him, standing above you, was a dark figure holding a blunt object.

Terror rushed through you, chilling the marrow in your bones. But before you could so much as scream, the figure lifted the object and brought it down on your head, hard.

Everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry.


	16. The Seventh Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE!!!

Your eyelids were so heavy it was almost impossible to open them. The chair you were in was cold and hard against your back, the discomfort prompting you to wake up a little faster.

Then your surroundings forced the memory of what had happened into your mind.

It was a dark metal room with a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Across the room on the wall were several closed metal hatches. Although you couldn’t make out much more. After all, your eyes were still partially closed and the dim light of the room made it even harder to see.

A small gasp next to you alerted the presence of someone else in the room.

Turning your head — with immense effort — you saw Spencer Reid slouched in the chair next to you, hands tied behind his back, slowly coming to.

“Spencer,” you said, voice quiet and strained. But he seemed to have heard judging by the way his eyes snapped wide open and he began to writhe in the chair.

Grunting harshly, he finally got his arms untied, jumping up and running toward the back of your chair and pulling off the rope, leaving your wrist burning slightly from the scratch.

Quickly analyzing the situation, Spencer firmly pressed against each of the four metal walls, ensuring that there was no way out. Then, when he was sure none of the walls would give, he started ramming his elbow against the metal slots in one of the walls.

“Spencer!” you had found your voice suddenly at the thought of him hurting himself. Strangely, you had just noticed that the two of you were only wearing your underwear. Even your bra had been put back on. Although he was wearing a watch you’d never seen before with a tight leather band that squeezed his wrist.

His gaze snapped to you, a determined look in his eye with a fire behind it that sent a spark through you.

“Where are we?”

It was a stupid question and you knew the answer, but you still had to ask. Spencer attempted to soften his expression but to no avail.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hurt on a whole new level. There was so much meaning behind them. They confirmed the fact that you had indeed been kidnapped and taken to some sort of torture chamber, they signified that he had failed to protect you, and they broke the pact you had to never apologize to one another.

There was a crackle and heavy breathing filled the room, the sound coming from a minuscule vent in one of the corners of the room.

Spencer stepped between you and the vent, reaching out a hand behind him to make sure you stayed behind him.

The breathing hesitated and after a moment, someone spoke.

“Hello, Y/N.”

The voice was so familiar. You knew you knew it but you didn’t know from where. The memory was just out of reach and it kept slipping through your fingers.

Spencer, however, had frozen, presumably recognizing the voice. Your hand moved to his shoulder of its own accord, finding the skin there to be freezing cold.

The voice from the vent chuckled.

“I understand that you and Spencer have become quite attached lately.”

You looked at him, unsure whether to respond or not. He glanced at you over his shoulder and nodded stiffly.

“Ye— _ ahem _ —yes, we have. Why?” To recognize the voice, you needed to keep him talking.

“Hmm. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go for each other.”

There was a whooshing noise and one of the four slots in the wall shot open, revealing a small hidden space.

“I’m sure if you can’t figure out what to do,  _ Doctor _ Spencer Reid can help you.”

And then it clicked. And it all made sense. 

How he’d found your address,  _ “Whoever accesses your card, even for something as small as a stick of gum, has the opportunity to use that information to find your name, your address, your workplace—” “Ok. I get it. People I see frequently and my credit card info. Gotta warn you, there’s not much I buy with it other than books and coffee.” _

How he’d known which hotel you were at,  _ “Whatever. Gives me more time to prepare for a cute date with a hot barista. Or . . . the other way around.” _

Even how he knew you were at the cabin,  _ “I actually had a coworker who had a cabin in the woods and he never mentioned becoming one with nature.” _

All because  _ “ . . . the waiter here, Tom, works at my regular coffee shop. Barista by day, waiter by night.” _

“Tom. . . .”

Spencer looked at you sorrowfully as the voice chuckled through the vent.

“Very good . . . Honestly, I’m disappointed it took you this long to figure it out. I mean, it was  _ pretty obvious _ . And so easy to get so much information about you! But! But, that's beside the point. You have a task I expect you to begin. After all, time is running out.”

Spencer reached into the hole in the wall, withdrawing a stopwatch, an electric hair clipper, and a small Exacto knife.

The stopwatch had two minutes and thirteen seconds on it, counting down slowly.

“What are we supposed to do?” you yelled at the wall, holding up the timer as if he could see it.  _ You don’t know, there might be a camera _ , you thought to yourself, wrapping an arm around your bare stomach.

There wasn’t a response though, just the sound of the stopwatch clicking quietly.

“Y/N . . .” Spencer spoke from behind you. “It’s the seventh book.”

Frantically trying to remember the order of the books in your nightstand, you realized what the clippers and knife meant.

_ The Handmaid’s Tale, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Telltale Heart, The Great Gatsby, 1984, A Clockwork Orange, _ and . . .

The seventh book was a very old and very rare edition of  _ The Gift of The Magi. _

“So we have to choose . . .”

The watchband on Spencer’s wrist was too tight to slip the knife through without cutting through his skin. And your hair would take much longer than two minutes to cut with a knife and clippers.

Without a word, Spencer took the exact-o knife and plunged it into the skin around his wrist, wincing in pain as he cut through the band.

“Spencer, no!”

But the watch fell from his hand to the floor, dripping with blood, Spencer’s wrist sliced open neatly. The wound was superficial but it looked like it hurt. He collapsed to the floor, dropping the knife and you rushed to his side.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded weakly, putting pressure on the cut.

“Very interesting . . .” Tom’s voice echoed around the room and you felt your stomach fill with rage like never before, spinning around and throwing the clippers at the wall with all of your might.

“We’re not going to play your fucking mind game!”

“Y/N,” Spencer whispered from the floor. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

The answer to your question came in the form of an ear-splitting siren, the noise resonating around the room, forcing its way past your eardrums, giving you an abominable headache.

The noise suddenly stopped and Tom spoke again.

“It is your choice whether you play or not. But consider that a preview of the punishment for refusing to. And trust me, there’s worse punishments than that.”

The second hatch slid open.

Head darting between it and Spencer on the floor, holding his wrist, you opted to fetch the next items.

There was another stopwatch, this time with five minutes, two small slips of paper, and some kind of device transmitting footage of two people in a poorly lit room, strapped to chairs similar to how you had been moments ago.

“What the fuck is this?”

The light in the room came on, showing the people in the chairs to be a man and a woman. You didn’t recognize either of them, and, judging by his face, neither did Spencer.

“Oh no.”

You read the slips of paper.

_ Man _ and  _ Woman _ , they said.

_ We have to choose one. _

“We have to choose one.”

Spencer looked at you shaking his head, so overwhelmed by the fact that the two of you were in this situation.

You scrambled, unable to deal with the thought, “What if we—“

“—I’m sure the punishment will be worse if we don't choose one. Most likely, he’ll kill both of them. Statistically, men die younger than women and they can’t bear children. But women have a higher pain tolerance and—“

He was talking himself in circles, trying desperately to come up with a solution to an impossible problem.

“Spencer, this is something you can’t reason. We just have to pick one.”

You couldn’t believe he was only twenty-six. His eyes bore the weight of someone much older.

You forced a weak laugh that tasted terrible on your tongue, “Eenie Meenie Miney-Moe?”

He chuckled weakly. “No luck, I know you land on whichever one you didn’t start with.”

“Me too.”

“Time’s running out,” Tom reminded you.

Your face fell, all hints of a smile gone.

“The man.” You gaped at Spencer who had piped up just enough to make the decision.

There was a pause, then a dark figure walked into the room onscreen, brandishing a gun and aiming at the back of the man’s head.

The muffled sound of a gunshot rang out, making you and Spencer jump as the man went limp in the chair and the feed cut out.

Bile rose in your throat and you ran to a corner of the room to throw up.

“Very interesting,” Tom repeated, his voice sparking disgust deep in your stomach.

“Why are you doing this?” you begged, reaching out for Spencer who seemed to be doing a bit better judging by the fact he could now stand and his wrist was no longer gushing blood.

“I like watching the way you think.”

The now-familiar sound of the hatch opening brought you back to the situation at hand, trying desperately to get the image from the screen out of your mind.

Spencer reached into the hatch and pulled out two more slips of paper and another stopwatch.

The screen flicked back on, showing two more people in a dark room, another man and woman. The room was still dark so you couldn't make out much more.

You looked up at Spencer, confused, but his face had gone white as a sheet and he was staring at the pieces of paper.

“No.” Spencer ran to the vent, slamming on the wall. “No! Ahh!” shouting in pain when his wound made contact.

Tom didn’t say anything so you approached Spencer, snatching the pieces of paper to better understand why he was so angry.

The room on the screen lit up the moment you read the papers. This time it didn’t say man or woman. This time there were two names.

_ Steve  _ and _ J.J. _

Spencer’s blonde coworker and your closest friend were slumped over in the chairs on-screen, wriggling against their restraints. All breath left your body, your heart stopped in your chest.

“ _ TOM!  _ Please don’t do this.”

The desperation seeped into your voice pitifully. 

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Y/N,” Spencer stepped between you and the vent again, holding your shoulders. You suddenly felt how wet your eyes were. Strange how you hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“I . . . I can’t.”

Being forced to decide who lives and who dies was difficult enough to break anyone’s spirit. But this . . . this shattered yours to the core.

“You don’t have to,” Spencer said, “I can do it.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Tom chided playfully, voice muffled through the speaker. “You’ve already chosen twice, Doctor. I think it’s Y/N’s turn, don’t you?”

“Look, I can make the decision. You don’t want to put her through too much, do you?” Spencer’s voice was soft, but the way he was gripping your hand suggested he felt otherwise. “You wouldn’t do that to her.”

“I suppose you’re right. Though, while I do care for her, it is her turn. But don’t fret! You can make the next decision together.”

Your eyes were locked on the screen, watching as Steve and J.J. came to, becoming rapidly aware of their situation and struggling against the bindings. Spencer gently squeezed your hand, showing you the time on the stopwatch. Fifty seconds left.

There was no right decision.

J.J. had a child, a husband, a family. Steve had no one. Steve had you. 

There was no right decision. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a wrong one.

“ _ Steve. _ ” You hadn’t said it out loud, just mouthed the word letting the breath flow out of you.

Then, realizing he couldn’t hear you, you repeated yourself.

“Steve.” It was barely a whisper but it was the loudest sound in the world.

Actually, strike that, the loudest sounds were the footsteps entering the room and standing behind your friend, holding a gun to his head.

Tom’s voice came back over the intercom.

“I need you to say it.”

It took every ounce of strength not to fall to the ground and burst into tears. The only thing keeping you upright was fear. Pure terror. You couldn’t say it, but if you didn’t they’d both die.

“Kill Steve.”

You closed your eyes before the gunshot went off, knees giving out and collapsing to the ground, feeling Spencer fall with you, trying to keep you as upright as possible.

“Hey,” he grabbed your head, forcing your gaze to him, his dark brown eyes dark with rage. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Tom’s voice made your stomach contort.

The fourth and final hatch slid open.

“I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” your hands were trembling harder than your voice as you shook back and forth, clutching your legs to your chest.

“Okay, it’s okay. It’s almost over,” Spencer said, standing and reaching into the last slot. 

He didn’t move for a while, back turned to you, looking down at something.

“Spencer?”

“Me, I choose me,” he said, turning towards the vent, revealing the item he was holding. A gun. His gun.

“ _ No _ !”

“Very well,” Tom said, chuckling. “But that’s not quite how this works. One of you has to die, but the other has to do it.”

Spencer ran and sat next to you on the floor, forcing the gun into your hands, lightly placing your finger on the trigger.

“Spencer . . .”

“Listen to me, it’s okay. Okay? If we don’t do this, he’s gonna kill us both. I need you to understand that I am okay with this. I am choosing this, not you. This is for me to decide.”

He slowly brought the gun up to his head, resting just between his eyebrows.

That was too much and the sobs that had been building up in your chest escaped your lips, tears pouring down your cheeks and falling onto your legs. Your hands trembled harder, the gun shaking against his head.

“Y/N,” he smiled, eyes bright and twinkling. “It’s okay.” Then, he swallowed, looked away for a moment, then looked back at you with fire burning deep behind his eyes. What he said next changed your life.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You sobbed as he cocked the gun and steadied your finger on the trigger.

“I love you, Spencer.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. You didn’t even have to think before you did what you did next.

You removed the gun from his head, held it against your own, right on your temple, and stood, turning toward the vent.

“5 . . .”

“Wait!” Tom called out.

“4 . . .”

“Y/N, stop!” Spencer shouted at you.

“3 . . .”

“That’s not how this works!” Tom yelled furiously, voice cracking. “Stop! You have to shoot him!”

“2 . . .”

The wall under the vent slid open and a dark figure stumbled in, holding out a blunt object, approaching you threateningly, rearing back.

The instant you saw the whites of Tom’s eyes, you aimed the gun directly between his eyes and squeezed the trigger, attempting to keep your arm as still as possible. In a flash, you were brought back to the alley where you shot a gun for the first time. All you could think of were your and Spencer’s lips meeting for the first time.

You didn’t realize you’d closed your eyes until you opened them and was met with the image of Tom The Barista with a bloody hole in his head, falling backwards to the floor, crumpling like a rag doll, a blank expression on his face.

Taking one last look at Spencer to make sure he was okay, you felt your legs give out beneath you and you fell to the floor, losing consciousness. 

Again, everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter comes tomorrow. thank you, everyone, for reading this, I love you so much and I am so sorry!


	17. The Ones We Win

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter

You woke in the hospital, unsure of how much time had passed, this time much more drugged up judging by the strangely good mood you were in.

Or perhaps your mood had something to do with the sight of Spencer slumped in the chair next to your bed, a yellow cardigan draped over him, snoring softly.

“Merry Christmas,” although it came out raspy and barely audible, he still snapped awake, rushing to your side and holding your hand like it was made of glass.

“Hey,” his eyes were full of fear and worry but also relief and care. “You’re safe, it’s okay.”

You smiled softly at him.

“No, it’s not.”

His expression shifted, not sadder but more earnest. He knew you were right.

Smiling, he whispered, “No. No, it’s not. But it will be.”

For a while the two of you sat there, holding hands, enjoying each other’s company without having to worry about imminent danger for the first time ever.

You cleared your throat, memories coming back as the morphine wore off.

“Is . . . is Steve . . . ?”

Spencer frowned, looking down at the ground.

“Steve. . . the bullet entered right in his neck … they-they operated for hours but … he-he slipped into a coma. I’m sorry.”

You nodded seriously, forcing back the tears that threatened to escape. Somehow, after all you’d been through, you’d become numb to such awful news. Although, it could be the morphine. 

“And J.J.?”

“She’s fine. Well, she’ll be okay.”

You nodded again, glancing down at where your hands were joined.

“What now?”

“Well, um there are some things the FBI has to go over with you, so once you’ve recovered a bit more, they’re gonna have to ask you a few questions.”

“Can’t you do it?”

His cheeks went pink and he cleared his throat awkwardly, hand shifting in yours.

“I, um, I’ve been unassigned from the case.”

“Why?!”

“C-conflict of interest.”

“Oh, right.”

Although you weren’t sure exactly which conflict of interest he was referring to. It was either the fact he’d been kidnapped along with you, or it had to with how much he’d told them about what happened at the cabin.

You must have been blushing because he removed his hand from yours and stood, starting to pace, frantically wringing his hands.

“Look, about what I . . . I only . . .” he sighed. 

“You know, for someone who’s constantly talking, you sure do have trouble finding your words,” you smiled at him.

He chuckled, running a hand through his fluffy hair that had gotten much messier since you’d last seen it. There was also a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. How long had he been sitting with you?

“Y/N, I . . . I meant everything I said.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of that sentence implied on you.

“That you . . . you—“

“I love you,” the words practically spilled out of his mouth, as if he couldn’t have possibly held them back any longer. 

You beamed, astonished by the admittance. You assumed he would have assured you that any feelings between the two of you couldn’t continue because the lines of your relationship were far too blurred and complicated. Plus, you’d been put in a situation that neither of you would ever forget.

“I want to be with you, Spencer. Before you say anything,” you said quickly as he opened his mouth, “let me just say, I know that this is a really fucked up situation. I know that this probably violates every single FBI code and regulation. I know we’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks. I know that to the outside world, this looks like a classic case of transference or whatever. But really, the only thing I know for sure . . . the only thing I really  _ care _ about, is that I love you, too. I love you for you.”

His face was impossible to read.

Feeling a surge of disappointment, you glanced away, deciding to give him an out.

“But I know you feel differently. I just needed you to hear that. I won’t be hurt if you decide to leave and never see me aga—“

But you were interrupted by a passionate kiss, his hands gripping your jaw, pulling you into him, holding you as close as he could without hurting you.

You gasped into the kiss, reciprocating the enthusiasm, delving deep into his mouth, tongues meeting in a wonderful blaze of lust and fire.

An eternity passed as you basked in the feeling of kissing someone who you knew you loved, and who you now knew loved you back.

No words could ever possibly describe what you were feeling.

You were brought out of the episode by the quiet clearing of a throat from the doorway.

Spencer snapped away from you, glancing at the door and going bright red. His coworker, Morgan, was standing there, awkwardly looking away with a mischievous smile on his face.

Reluctantly, Spencer looked back at you, attempting to smile.

“Listen, um … would you want to … to go….”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

“I’d love to, Spencer.”

His face lit up and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay,” you smiled, squeezing his hand before he walked out the doorway, glancing back at you before the door shut.

Once he left, you watched him and Morgan exchange a few words, Spencer growing redder and Morgan laughing. Their conversation ended with Morgan fake punching Spencer in the arm and the latter man shuffling off, attempting to hide the smile forcing its way onto his face.

Morgan waved a hand at him, then turned and entered the room.

“Ready?”

You smiled.

“As I’ll ever be.”

~

_ Four days later _

The doorbell rang, drawing your attention away from the pile of messy clothes you’d been attempting to put away.

He was early, of course. After all, it was your first ‘official’ date. It followed that Spencer Reid was punctual.

Kicking the dirty laundry under your bed, you opened the door, greeted by a huge bouquet of flowers over which Spencer’s head popped up beaming at you.

“I didn’t know your favorite flower, so I had them put all of them. I’m, um, I’m just now realizing how ugly it looks.”

You laughed, taking the bouquet and welcoming him in.

“It’s beautiful, Spencer. Thank you,” and you placed a quick kiss on his cheek, a soft blush forming there.

“So,” you called from the bedroom, slipping on some comfortable shoes, “where are you taking me?”

You saw him bounce on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets.

“It’s a surprise,” he chimed, “Well, it was supposed to be a while ago, actually.”

You practically ran out of your room, securing your earring.

“A while ago? Wait,” you gasped. “Is this the surprise you were going to show me after the restaurant?”

He nodded. 

It felt like so long ago the two of you had been in that alley, pressed up against each other. That was the first time you’d ever fired a gun. Turns out it had been good practice.

Shaking that memory out of your head, you followed Spencer out the door down the stairs and out into the cold December night.

Christmas felt like it hadn’t really happened. In fact, according to your doctor, you had been unconscious all Christmas day, finally waking up on the 27th. You and Spencer had decided to meet as soon as possible, not wanting to be apart for longer than necessary. It just happened that that meant New Year’s eve.

You walked for a while, chatting about all sorts of nonsense until finally, you realized where he was taking you.

“Wait, are we—“

“Ah! Don’t spoil the surprise.”

But within a few minutes, your suspicions were confirmed as you arrived outside of the downtown library, which, thankfully, stayed open pretty late.

He led you in, heading immediately for the language section.

“You remembered?” it was a stupid question and he cocked an eyebrow at you. You laughed, “Okay, fair enough.”

Still, you were touched that he had remembered a detail as small as a section of the library that you wanted to visit but was never able to because of stupid security reasons.

He withdrew the little golden key from your first restaurant date and unlocked the restricted section, leading you into the plethora of dictionaries and research books there.

“Being an FBI agent does have its upsides,” he joked, slipping his hand into yours and letting you lead the way through the stacks.

“This is amazing, Spencer! I've always wanted to come in here but they’d never let me. Some stupid regulations about student access.” You turned to face him, dragging him into a tight embrace. “Thank you.”

You could feel him shiver as your breath hit his neck.

And so you walked through the shelves, stopping when a book piqued your interest and explaining all sorts of rules of language to Spencer who picked it up pretty quickly. It was wonderful the way he watched you ramble, as though he truly wanted to hear more, to understand what you were saying.

It shocked you when the voice on the speaker announced that the library would be closing in ten minutes.

“Is it eleven already?” you asked, glancing around for a clock. Neither you nor Spencer wore watches. 

“Well, I hope you enjoyed the restricted section. Too bad we didn’t learn anything about Nicholas Flamel,” he side-eyed you, tongue in cheek and you beamed at him.

“You read Harry Potter?”

He took a sip of an imaginary cup, smiling and pulling you closer as you walked towards the exit, “While you were asleep at the hospital. It actually took me a couple of days to finish if you can believe it. I just got so invested in the story, I had to slow down to truly appreciate it. Make the experience last longer.”

Pleased, you reached up and gave him a kiss, now just outside the library, all alone.

His eyes sparkled in the streetlight. You could so easily get lost in them. He looked at you in a way no one ever had before. He looked at you like you were something worth looking at.

“Follow me,” you said mysteriously, taking his hand and leading him down the empty street, a wicked smile on your face.

He laughed nervously, long legs able to keep up easily, “Where are we going?”

“You got to surprise me. It’s my turn.”

You halted in the street, the words unconsciously taking you back to the dark metal room. Tom’s voice rang through your ears,  _ “I think it’s Y/N’s turn, don’t you?” _

Spencer must have noticed your pause because he was suddenly in front of you, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Hey,” he was so gentle, so sweet, pulling you out of your flashback with his voice. “Let’s go.”

So you led him to your destination: a small park with a little white arch which you stood under, whipping out your phone and tapping rapidly. In the center of the park was a little clock tower, it was almost midnight.

“I used to come here when I needed to clear my head.”

“What are we doing?” he asked, standing across from you, peeking down at your phone, hands in his pockets.

“You went to college at fourteen, right?”

His eyes narrowed, unsure of where this was going.

“Yes. . . ?”

You put your phone on a little bench, music starting to play from it.

“So I’m guessing you never really went to prom?”

His face went blank, realizing what you planned as you slipped your hands up to his shoulders. Rather than reciprocating, he stood awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“While I have been told I tend to sway on my feet when I get nervous, I, um, I can’t dance, Y/N.”

“So don’t dance,” you stared into his eyes, as dark as black holes, “just sway.” And you moved his arms to your waist where they rested lightly, applying just the right amount of pressure.

And, as instructed, he swayed softly with you as the gentle slow song played in the background, barely audible from where you were snuggled into his chest, his chin resting gently on your head.

In that moment, you could see your entire future laid out in front of you. You and Spencer going on scores of dates, getting closer and more comfortable with each other. Your first fight that ended with plenty of “I love you”s. Your first time being with each other, getting to explore one another's bodies in a whole new light. Everything the future held for you, Spencer was there, standing by your side.

The song was over before you knew it. Pulling back, you wondered how long you’d been swaying in silence.

“Hey, Spencer?”

He stared at you harder than ever before, eyes analyzing every part of you.

“Yeah?”

It was barely a whisper as he said it, tilting your face up to his with a finger.

“I asked you how cases like this end. You said of the ones you win, the killer goes to prison and eventually everyone moves on. You never said what happens to the ones you lose.”

He realized what you were asking.

“The ones we lose.... The ones we lose serve as a reminder of how important it is not to fail.”

You nodded softly. Then—

“Which is this?”

Everything depended on his answer. Your future was utterly and completely in his hands. He could say they’d won, signifying that the two of you would move on, forget about each other, or he could say they’d lost, signifying that no matter what happened, neither of you would move on from the kidnapping, making it impossible to maintain a healthy relationship. Either way, you were going to lose him.

But Spencer Reid was a genius. A fact that seemed to keep slipping your mind. 

“There’s a third possibility,” he whispered, surprising you. When you met his eyes, you could see the desperation in them, the fear of saying the wrong thing.

“A possibility where the outcome of the case doesn’t define how we feel about each other.”

You could hear cheers from uptown, the sound of people celebrating and fireworks going off.

The clock tower began to chime, twelve painfully slow strikes signifying that the new year had come as you held each other in your arms.

On the last chime, you practically jumped into his arms, kissing for what felt like the first time, every single emotion behind it conveyed in the way you pulled his hair and yanked him closer until there was no part of you not touching. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you close to him and deepening the kiss until you were both out of breath.

This felt like love. But how could you be sure?

You pulled back and stared at him.

“Maybe whatever happens to the killer isn’t what determines if you win or lose.”

He waited for you to go on.

“If none of this happened, I never would have done so many things. Shot a gun, been to that library, played strip poker. . . I never would have met you. To me, that sure sounds like one of the ones we win.”

He smiled so sweetly, the light of a thousand suns washing over you.

After sitting in the moment with him a little while longer, you picked up your phone and began the walk back to your apartment.

“You didn’t read  _ The Cursed Child _ , did you?”

“I read the first two chapters but I stopped because I thought it was a Harry Potter fan fiction,” he said, blushing.

You laughed, clutching his arm.

This was love. And you both knew it.

“That’s probably for the best,” you smiled at him, knowing that although the future was blurry, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was now, you and him walking through the street, arms entwined, utterly in love, the sounds of people celebrating the new year lighting up the path behind you. “I never liked fan fiction anyway. . . .”

~

_ The End. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone for reading this series. words cannot describe how I feel! i love you all so much. more works to come!


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